By

N.Y. Times Best Selling Author

STEVE ALTEN

(Previously published as

MEG: A Novel of Deep Terror)

Other titles by Steve Alten

MEG SERIES

The MEG (Viper Press, a division of A & M Publishing)

The TRENCH (Kensington/Pinnacle)

MEG: Primal Waters (Tor/Forge)

MEG: Hell’s Aquarium (Tor/Forge)

MEG: Night Stalkers (Tor/Forge)

MEG: Generations (A & M Publishing)

MAYAN DOOMSDAY SERIES

DOMAIN (Tor/Forge)

RESURRECTION (Tor/Forge)

PHOBOS: Mayan Fear (Tor/Forge)

The LOCH NESS Series

The LOCH (Tor/Forge)

VOSTOK (Tor/Forge)

THE LOCH: Heaven’s Lake (To be announced)

GOLIATH (Tor/Forge)

THE SHELL GAME (Tor/Forge)

GRIM REAPER: End of Days (Tor/Forge).

THE OMEGA PROJECT (Tor/Forge)

SHARKMAN (Viper Press, a division of A & M Publishing)

UNDISCLOSED (A&M Publishing)

DOG TRAINING THE AMERICAN MALE

(WJM Books, a division of A & M Publishing)

A comedic novel, written under the pen name L.A. KNIGHT

The MEG

Published by A&M Publishing, L.L.C.

West Palm Beach, FL 33411

www.AMPublishers.com

Copyright © 2018 by Alten Entertainment of Boca Raton, Inc.

ISBN: 978-1943957-08-8

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s

imagination or are used fictitiously and should not be construed as real. Any resemblance to

actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

K

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used nor reproduced in any manner whatsoever

without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles

and reviews. For more information, email all inquiries to …

Meg82159@aol.com

(Previously published as MEG: A Novel of Deep Terror)

Printed in the United States of America

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

It took 22 years, three major movie studios, two reversions, 40+ producers, over a dozen

scripts, and one incredibly determined and creative producer named Belle Avery to bring my

first and most popular series, MEG, to the big screen. Detractors in Hollywood predicted a

flop; however, I knew how dedicated my MEGheads are, and so I was pleased, but far from

surprised, when THE MEG (starring Jason Statham) was #1 in the U.S. and the rest of the

world back in the Summer of 2018, grossing well over $500 million at the box office, with a

sequel now in the works. In the wake of THE MEG’s success, I have optioned three more of

this series to my dear friend and producer, Belle Avery; all underwater features, including THE

LOCH, a thriller about the legendary Loch Ness monster.

Now 60 years old and fighting Parkinson’s Disease (I was diagnosed at age 47), I find myself

busier than ever, working 14-hour days, seven days a week with a talented international team

of artists, 3D animators, computer programmers, actors, producers, directors, a multi-talented

storyboard artist, a museum curator/shark expert, video game programmer, and a virtual design

engineer—everyone dedicated to bringing my latest and most challenging project—www.

SeaMonsterCove.com—to life.

This special colorized version of THE MEG was painstakingly put together by my dear

friend and tireless editor, Barbara Becker, along with the other colorized novels in the private

Steve Alten library, none of which are for sale yet offered for your reading pleasure.

Along with “BB,” I’d like to acknowledge the members of the SeaMonsterCove.com team:

Gersham Reese Wetzel – (USA) storyboard artist, designer, writer and park creator.

Kelly Rollyson – (USA) Steve’s assistant & social media director.

Directors:

Max Ginolin – (France) Actor, producer & director of our web series: Where Sea Monsters

Roam.

Kreg Lauterbach – (USA) Aquarium Visits producer & director. Created and directed

Jurassic Fight Club & Mayan Doomsday Prophecy (History Channel).

Chris McGlothlin – (USA) Cinematographer

Tonja Walker Davidson – (USA) actress/script consultant. Known for her role as Alex

Olanov on One Life to Live and Olivia St. John on General Hospital.

Chuck Cureau – (USA) Worked for 30 years as a trainer at Sea World, Chuck will act in

both the web series and aquarium visits.

Special Effects:

Supervisors: Steve Clarke & Paul Knott: (UK) 3D Animation team at CKVFX with an

expertise in big sharks and monsters.

John Dpic – (USA) 3D artist / modeler and animator.

Tiffanie Gray - (USA) 2D painter, designer, park creator & creative input in all depts.

Tim Gray – (USA) design engineer & park creator.

Jose Ramirez Rivas – (Spain) 3D artist & modeler.

Mateo Sebastián Pavanel Sander – (Argentina) 3D artist & modeler.

Samantha Davidson – (USA) Publicist

Keith Cowley – (USA) Educational Director – Curator, Living Sharks Museum

Doug & Lisa McEntyre – (USA) webmasters.

Adam Faulkner – (USA) merchandise.

J.S. Earls – (USA) Multi-talented contributor.

Kevin Miller (USA) Video Game programmer.

Thanks also to my friend and editor Tim Schulte, my webmaster Doug McEntyre and his

wife, Lisa, at Millennium Technology Resources, Erik Hollander, my gifted graphic artist who

has been creating my cover art for years, and to James Gelet for all of his amazing book

trailers. Thanks as well to artists Bill McDonald, Tan Ngo and underwater photographer

Malcolm Nobbs for their contributions.

My heartfelt appreciation to my literary agent Danny Baror and Heather Baror-Shapiro

at Baror International; my attorneys, Joel McKuin and Rob Goldman; and Ken Atchity, at

AEI, to whom I owe so much of my early success.

Finally, to my wife and soul mate, Kim, our children, my parents, and especially to the

MEGheads … Thank you for your correspondence and contributions. Your comments are

always a welcome treat, your input means so much, and you remain this author’s greatest asset.

—Steve Alten, Ed.D.

To personally contact the author or learn more about his novels, go to

www.SteveAlten.com

The MEG is part of ADOPT-AN-AUTHOR, a free nationwide program for Secondary

School students and teachers.

For more information, go to www.AdoptAnAuthor.com

Dedicated to my father

LAWRENCE ALTEN

A kinder soul never lived …

&

WADE MALLER

A friend to all who left us far too soon …

Special Bonus

Meg: Origins—The prequel telling the

story of Jonas Taylor’s first

encounter with Megalodon sharks—

follows, starting on page 228.

MEGALODON

Late Jurassic-Early Miocene Period

The Coast of the Asiamerica-Northern Landmass

(Pacific Ocean)

FROM THE MOMENT the early morning fog had begun to lift, they sensed they were being

watched. The herd of Shantungosaurus had been grazing along the misty shoreline all morning.

Measuring more than forty feet from their duck-billed heads to the end of their tails, these

reptiles, the largest of the hadrosaurs, gorged themselves on the abundant supply of kelp and

seaweed that continued to wash up along the shoreline with the incoming tide. Every few

moments the gentle giants raised their heads like a herd of nervous deer, listening to the noises

of the nearby forest. They watched the dark trees and thick vegetation for movement, ready

to run at the first sign of approach.

Across the beach, hidden among the tall trees and thick undergrowth, a pair of red reptilian

eyes followed the herd. The Tyrannosaurus rex, largest and most lethal of all terrestrial carni-

vores, towered twenty-two feet above the forest floor. Saliva oozed from the big male’s mouth;

its muscles quivering with adrenaline as it focused on two duckbills venturing out into the

shallows, isolating themselves from the herd.

With a blood-curdling roar the killer crashed through the trees, its eight tons pounding the

sand and shaking the earth with every step. The duckbills momentarily froze, then rose on their

hind legs and scattered in both directions along the beach.

The two hadrosaurs grazing in the surf saw the carnivore closing in on them, its jaws wide,

fangs bared, its bone-chilling trumpet drowning the crash of the surf. Trapped, the pair turned

and plunged into deeper water to escape. They strained their long necks forward and began

to swim, their legs churning to keep their heads above water.

Driven by hunger, T. rex crashed through the surf after them. Far from buoyant, the killer

waded into deeper waters, snapping its jaws at the incoming swells. But as it neared its prey,

the T. rex’s clawed feet sank deep into the muddy sea floor, its weight driving it into the mire.

The hadrosaurs paddled in thirty feet of water, safe for the moment. But having escaped

one predator, they now faced another.

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Steve Alten

The six-foot gray dorsal fin rose slowly from the sea, its unseen girth gliding silently across

the dinosaurs’ path. If the T. rex was the most terrifying creature ever to walk the earth, then

Carcharodon megalodon was easily lord and master of the sea. Sixty feet from its conical snout

to the tip of its half-moon-shaped caudal fin, the shark moved effortlessly through its liquid

domain, circling its outmatched prey. It could feel the racing heartbeats of the hadrosaurs and

the heavier thumpa, thumpa of the T. rex, its ampullae of Lorenzini—gel-filled sensory pores

located beneath its snout—detecting the pounding organs’ electrical impulses. A line of neuro-

cells along its flank registered each unique vibration in the water, while its directional nostrils

tasted the scent of sweat and urine excreted from its floundering meal-to-be.

The pair of hadrosaurs were paralyzed in fear, their eyes following the unseen creature’s

sheer moving mass which circled closer, creating a current of water that lifted and dragged the

two reptiles into deeper waters. The sudden change panicked the duckbills—the beasts quickly

reversing direction, paddling back toward the beach. They would take their chances with the

Tyrannosaurus.

Legs churning water, they moved back into the shallows, feeling the mud swirling beneath

their feet. T. rex, in water up to its burly chest, let out a thundering growl, but could not

advance, the predator struggling to keep from sinking farther into the soft sea floor.

The duckbills neared the reptile’s snapping jaws, then suddenly broke formation, striding in

separate directions, passing within a few harrowing feet of the frustrated hunter. The T. rex

lunged, snapping its terrible jaws, howling in rage at its fleeing prey. The duckbills never stopped,

bounding through the smaller waves until they staggered onto the beach and collapsed on the

warm sand, too exhausted to move.

Still sinking, the Tyrannosaurus had to struggle to keep its huge head only a few feet above

water. Insane with rage, it lashed its tail wildly in an attempt to free one of its hind legs. Then,

all at once, it stopped and stared out to sea.

From the dark waters, a great dorsal fin was approaching, slicing through the fog.

The T. rex cocked its head and stood perfectly still, instincts telling it that it had wandered

into the domain of a superior hunter.

The Tyrannosaurus felt the tug of current caused by thirty tons of circling mass. Its red eyes

followed the gray dorsal fin until it finally disappeared beneath the murky waters.

T. rex growled quietly, searching through the haze. Leaning forward, it managed to free one

of its thickly-muscled hind legs, then quickly freed the other.

On the beach, the hadrosaurs took notice and backed away—

—as the towering dorsal fin rose again from the mist, this time racing directly for the T. rex.

The reptile roared, accepting the challenge, its jaws snapping in anger.

The wake kept coming, the dorsal fin rising higher … higher, while underwater, the unseen

assailant’s head rotated slightly, its jaws hyperextending seconds before it slammed into the T.

rex’s soft midsection like a freight train striking a disabled SUV.

T. rex slammed backward through the ocean, its breath blasting out of its crushed lungs,

2

THE

an eruption of blood spewing from its open mouth seconds before its head disappeared

beneath the waves.

With a whoosh the dinosaur fought its way back to the surface, its rib cage crushed within

the powerful jaws of its still-unseen killer, the T. rex choking on its gushing innards.

And then the fearsome land dweller vanished beneath a swirling pool of scarlet sea.

The hadrosaurs had watched the scene unfold. They waited for their stalker to reappear, their

bladders releasing in fear. Long moments passed, the sea remaining silent. The spell of the attack

broken, the duckbills abandoned the beach, lumbering toward the trees to rejoin their herd.

An explosion of ocean sent their heads turning as the sixty-foot shark burst from the water,

its enormous head and upper torso quivering as it fought to remain suspended above the

waves, the broken remains of its prey grasped within its terrible jaws. In an incredible display

of raw power, the Meg shook the reptile from side to side, allowing its upper front row of

seven-inch serrated teeth to rip through gristle and bone, the action sending swells of pink

frothing water in every direction.

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Steve Alten

No other scavengers approached the Meg as it fed. The predatory fish had no mate to share

its kill with, no young to feed. A rogue hunter, territorial by nature, the shark mated out of

instinct and killed its young when it could, for the only challenge to its reign came from its own

kind. A marvel of nature that had evolved over hundreds of millions of years, it would adapt

and survive the natural catastrophes and climatic changes that caused the mass extinctions of

the giant reptiles and countless prehistoric mammals. And while Megalodon’s own numbers

would eventually dwindle, some members of its species would manage to survive, isolated from

the world of man in the perpetual darkness of the unexplored ocean depths …

4

THE PROFESSOR

November 8, 5:42 p.m.

The Scripps Institute, Anderson Auditorium

La Jolla, California

JONAS TAYLOR STOPPED the projector as the image of the Megalodon feeding upon the

T. rex began to pixelate on the big screen. The house lights came up, allowing the thirty-seven-

year-old paleobiologist to look out at his audience of just under fifty attendees, most of the

seats empty.

“I hope you enjoyed our little ‘match of the titans.’ For the record, T. rex and Carcharodon

megalodon never actually shared the same time period on our planet. Tyrannosaurus rex lived

during the late Cretaceous and died off about sixty-five million years ago after an asteroid

struck Earth. The Megalodon’s reign began during the Miocene period, about thirty-five

million years later and lasted until the dawn of modern man. Other than that, the film is fairly

accurate. Megalodon was a real monster, the prehistoric cousin of our modern-day great white

shark, only it was fifty to seventy feet long and weighed close to seventy thousand pounds. Its

head alone was probably as large as a Dodge Ram pickup; its jaws could have engulfed and

swallowed half-a-dozen grown men whole. And I haven’t even mentioned the teeth—razor-

sharp, six to seven inches long, each possessing serrated edges like a steel steak knife.”

The former deep-sea submersible pilot loosened his collar and took a slow deep breath,

knowing he had his audience’s attention. Of course, lecturing in front of a sparse crowd was

disappointing. Jonas knew his theories were controversial, that there were as many critics in

the audience as there were supporters.

Still, just to be heard, to feel important again …

“Fossilized Megalodon teeth found around the world tell us the species dominated the

oceans over most of the last thirty million years. Some experts believe the species perished

about two million years ago as a result of the last Ice Age. Others have found teeth that date

back a mere hundred thousand years. From a geological perspective, either estimate is just a

tick of the clock, and there’s little doubt our two species shared the planet at the same time.

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Steve Alten

The big question, of course, is why did the most fearsome predator in Earth’s history die off

at all? If the great white shark survived the last Ice Age, why not its prehistoric cousin?”

Jonas loosened his collar a bit more. He rarely wore suits, and this eight-year-old wool

jacket itched like hell.

“Those of you who read my book are aware of how my opinions often differ from those of

most paleobiologists. Many in my field spend a great deal of time theorizing why a particular

species no longer exists, while I prefer to focus my research on how a seemingly extinct species

might still exist.”

A broad-chested man in his mid-fifties stood from his seat in the first row, demanding to

be heard. Jonas recognized Lee Udelsman. His former colleague at Scripps had become an

outspoken critic.

“Professor Taylor, I spent twenty-nine ninety-five on your book and read it from cover to

cover, I was left with the impression that you actually believe Carcharodon megalodon may still

be roaming our oceans. Is that true?”

The audience murmured, waiting for the answer they had come to hear.

Jonas composed himself. Be careful. The wrong quote will kill your credibility, not to mention

book sales.

“Do I believe vast numbers of Megs may still be roaming our oceans? Not at all, Professor

Udelsman. I’m simply pointing out that, as scientists, we tend to take a rather short-sighted ‘if

we haven’t seen it, it doesn’t exist anymore’ approach when it comes to declaring certain

marine animals extinct. For instance, scientists once believed the coelacanth, a species of lobe-

finned fish that thrived three hundred million years ago, had gone extinct over the last seventy

million years. That so-called fact held up until 1938, when a fisherman hauled a living

coelacanth out of the deep waters off South Africa. Now scientists routinely observe these

‘living fossils’ in their natural habitat.”

Lee Udelsman held his ground. “Professor Taylor, we’re all familiar with the discovery of

the coelacanth. But I think you’ll agree, there’s a big difference between a five-foot bottom-

feeder and a sixty-foot predatory shark.”

Jonas checked his watch, realizing he was running behind schedule. “Yes, I agree. My point

was simply that I prefer to investigate the possibilities of a species’ survival rather than add to

any unproven conjecture regarding extinction among marine dwellers. I often hear critics state

that if Megalodon were still alive we’d have seen one by now—at least a dead one that washed

ashore. The statement is ridiculous. First, the oceans are vast and sharks have no reason to

surface just to show a passing boat their telltale dorsal fin. As far as the remains of a dead Meg

washing ashore, it’s a physiological fact that dead sharks don’t float, they sink. Other predators

devour the meat, leaving behind the cartilage, which dissolves in seawater. All that’s left are

the animal’s teeth, which end up buried on the sea floor.”

“Agreed. But you still haven’t answered my question, Professor Taylor. Do you believe

Megalodon is still alive?”

6

THE

The audience applauded.

Jonas glanced at his watch. Ten minutes late … Maggie’s going to be pissed. Toss Udelsman

some red meat, sign a few books, then call it a night.

“From strictly a logical scientific standpoint, yes, professor I believe it’s possible. We know

Megalodon’s major food source—whales—was still quite abundant following the last Ice Age,

so there was plenty to eat. As far as colder temperatures affecting the creatures, we know that

the internal anatomy of larger sharks like the great white functions like an internal heat

factory. The Meg’s moving muscles could channel gobs of hot blood into its extremities through

a process known as gigantothermy, enabling it to adapt to even the coldest temperatures.

“The question is—what happened? Obviously there was a great die off. In my opinion,

Megalodon’s thirty-million-year reign was terminated by the rise of the killer whale. Pods of

orca numbering twenty to forty adults decimated Meg nurseries, which were relegated to the

shallows. Over time the adult sharks died off and the species bottomed out.”

His former colleague wasn’t through, turning Jonas’s night into a two-man show. “You’re

contradicting yourself, Taylor. You just said Megalodon might still be out there.”

“Correct. A decimated population doesn’t necessarily equate to extinction. Orcas may be

the wolves of the shallows but they can’t inhabit the mid-waters of the ocean, let alone the

abyss. Prior to 1977, many scientists—no doubt you among them—believed the abyss was

actually barren; after all, how could life exist without light … without photosynthesis? When

we actually bothered to take a look, we discovered hydrothermal vents—miniature volcanoes

of life-giving chemicals—spewing mineral-rich waters at temperatures that exceed seven

hundred degrees Fahrenheit. In some cases these minerals will level off about a half mile or

so above the sea floor, creating a layer of insulation that keeps in the heat, forming what we

now call a hydrothermal plume. In essence, you have an anomaly of nature, a tropical oasis of

life running along the very bottom of the ocean, separated from the surface by a frigid layer

of water. These hydrothermal vents and their minerals anchor vast chemosynthetic food chains,

some of which, could support a subspecies of Megalodon.”

A middle-aged woman stood, her teenage son squirming in the seat next to her. “You’ll be

happy to know my son, Brandon agrees with you about Megalodon still being alive. However,

as a middle school marine biology teacher, I’d like to know if you actually have any proof these

monster sharks are residing in the abyss.”

Jonas forced a smile while he waited for the crowd’s applause to subside.

“Ma’am, let me show you something that was discovered in the abyss more than one

hundred years ago.” From a shelf inside the podium Jonas pulled out a glass case, roughly

twice the size of a shoe box.

Inside was a triangular gray tooth that was as large as his hand.

“This is a fossilized tooth of Carcharodon megalodon. Scuba divers and beachcombers have

turned up fossilized teeth like this by the thousands. Some are tens of millions of years old.

This particular specimen is special because it’s not very old. It was recovered in 1873 by the

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Steve Alten

world’s first true oceanic exploration vessel, the British HMS Challenger. Can you see these

manganese nodules?” Jonas pointed to the black encrustations on the tooth. “Recent analysis

of these manganese layers indicate the tooth’s owner had been alive during the late Pleistocene

or early Holocene period. In other words, this tooth is a mere ten thousand years old, and it

was dredged from the deepest point on our planet, the Mariana Trench’s Challenger Deep.”

The teen pumped his fist. “Ha, told you, Mom! You owe me twenty bucks.”

Jonas held up his hand, attempting to quiet a dozen side conversations as his eyes shifted

to a beautiful blonde making her way carefully down the center aisle in stiletto heels. Tan and

in her early thirties, she was wearing a topaz evening gown which hugged her flawless figure.

Her male escort, also in his thirties, trailed behind, his long dark hair slicked back into a tight

ponytail which contrasted with his conservative tuxedo.

Jonas waited for his wife and friend to be seated in the second row.

“Please, if you’ll give me a minute I’ll explain my theory, which is detailed in my new book,

then I have to wrap things up.”

Silence took the room.

8

THE

“Following the last Ice Age two million years ago, Megalodon pups inhabiting the shallow

water nurseries along the Mariana archipelago could have gone deep in order to escape pods

of killer whales. Descending to the Mariana Trench, these juvenile sharks would have dis-

covered warm bottom waters insulated by hydrothermal plumes. Given these variables,

members of this Megalodon nursery might have chosen to remain in the deep, surviving to

breed a new generation of deep-water monsters. Scientists may or may not agree with my

theory, however any answer rendered without a scientific investigation behind it—meaning an

actual expedition into the Mariana Trench is simply worthless conjecture.”

“What nonsense!” Mike “the Turk” Turzman, a popular local radio talk show host special-

izing in cryptozoology stood from his tenth-row seat, shouting to be heard. “There are no

hydrothermal vents in the Mariana Trench. None!”

Jonas shook his head. He had heard excerpts of the Turk’s recent interview with Richard

Ellis, a painter and self-proclaimed expert on all things nautical who had lambasted Taylor’s

research.

“You’re wrong, Mr. Turzman. The Ocean Exploration Ring of Fire Expedition recently

used satellite aperture radar to survey the Mariana Trench. They discovered more than fifty

underwater volcanoes, ten of which possessed active hydrothermal systems. These hydro

thermal systems were quite different from those found along the mid-Atlantic Ocean ridges,

potentially harboring all sorts of exotic life forms. So maybe the next time one of your guests

decides to publicly critique my research over the airwaves, you’ll do some fact checking of your

own.”

A smattering of applause escorted “the Turk” back to his seat.

“Professor Taylor, an important question—”

He looked up, searching the auditorium for the woman calling out his name.

It was an Asian-American beauty in her late twenties. Her long jet-black hair was pulled

into a tight bun, her white blouse tied around her midriff, revealing a taut stomach, her

jeans—torn at the knees—ending in Gucci heels.

I know her from somewhere …

“Yes, go on please.”

“Before you began studying these Megalodons, your career was focused entirely on piloting

deep-sea submersibles. I’d like to know why, at the peak of your career, you suddenly quit.”

Jonas was taken aback by the directness of her question. “First, I didn’t quit, I retired.

Second, my reasons are my own. Next question?” He searched the audience for another raised

hand.

“Pretty young to retire, weren’t you?” Heads turned as the Asian beauty approached from

one of the side aisles. “Or maybe it was something else? You haven’t been in a submersible for

what? Seven years? Did you lose your nerve, professor? Inquiring minds want to know.”

The audience chuckled. No one was leaving—this was getting good.

Jonas felt trickles of sweat drip from his armpits. “What’s your name, miss?”

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Steve Alten

“Tanaka. Terry Tanaka. I believe you know my father, Masao, CEO of the Tanaka

Oceanographic Institute.”

“Tanaka, of course. In fact, I think you and I met several years ago on a lecture circuit.”

“That’s right.”

“Well, Terry Tanaka, since your inquiring mind insists on violating my privacy, let’s just say,

after almost ten years with the Navy, I felt it was time to stop risking my life piloting deep-sea

submersibles. And so I went back to school to pursue my doctorate degree in order to research

prehistoric species like the Megalodon.”

Jonas collected his notes. “Now, if there are no other questions …”

“Dr. Taylor, please.” A balding man in his fifties wearing bifocals and a UCLA hooded

sweatshirt stood in the third row off to his left. “You mentioned the Mariana Trench as a

potential habitat for any surviving Megalodon. Has the trench ever been explored?”

“Unfortunately, no. There were two manned expeditions back in 1960, but in both cases

the bathyscaphes merely went to the bottom and resurfaced. It’s important to understand just

how big this gorge is and how dangerous it is to access. We’re essentially talking about a

fifteen-hundred-mile-long canyon that is over forty miles wide, located seven miles below the

surface. The water pressure alone is sixteen thousand pounds per square inch. We actually

know more about distant galaxies than the bottom of our own oceans.”

“Well stated. But professor, aren’t you forgetting about a few more recent descents into the

Mariana Trench, specifically the Challenger Deep?”

Jonas stared at the man, red warning flags fluttering in his head. “I’m sorry?”

“Come now, professor, you made several dives there yourself. Seven years ago, to be exact,

before your so-called-retirement from the Navy.”

Jonas felt the blood drain from his face as a buzz of excitement took the sparse crowd.

From the front row, Maggie motioned impatiently at her watch, her eyes tossing daggers

his way.

“I’m not sure where you’re getting your information, but I have another engagement

and—”

“I’m getting my information from the same source that told me you were dishonorably

discharged from the Navy following a three-month stint in a mental ward. Something about

post-traumatic stress brought on by the death of two civilians aboard a deep-sea Navy

submersible … a submersible you were piloting in the Mariana Trench.”

“You son of a bitch—that information’s classified!”

Chaos broke out as the audience yelled out questions and three photographers rushed

forward to snap photos, blinding Jonas with their purple flashes as he searched for his wife,

who was already making her escape back up the center aisle with his friend.

Climbing down from the stage, he attempted to chase after them, only to be cut off by

students calling out questions and Mike Turzman demanding answers. He was forced to sign

three books as he apologized for having to run, then managed to squeeze his way up the aisle

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THE

before the Asian beauty intercepted him at the auditorium doors.

“We need to talk.”

“Call my literary agent, Ken Atchity. He’s in the book.”

Pushing past her, he exited through the lobby to the street, banging his knee as he jumped

in the back seat of an awaiting limousine.

11

MAGGIE

THE LIMOUSINE RACED along the Coronado peninsula.

Jonas sat across the aisle from his wife, his back to the driver. Maggie was seated next to

Bud Harris, who was concluding a business transaction on his cell phone. He watched as his

former roommate at Penn State University absentmindedly fingered his ponytail like a school-

girl before glancing at Maggie.

Maggie Taylor looked very much at home on the wide leather seat, one tan slender leg

slipping out from the side slit in her dress, a glass of champagne balanced in her fingertips.

Jonas allowed his mind to wander, imagining her in a bikini, tanning herself on his million-

aire friend’s yacht. “You used to be afraid of the sun.”

“What?”

“Your tan. You used to say you were afraid of skin cancer.”

She stared at him. “I never said that. Besides, it looks good on camera.”

“What about your sister’s melanoma—”

“Don’t start with me, Jonas. I’m not in the mood. This is probably the biggest night of my

career, and I had to practically drag you out of that lecture hall. You’ve known about this

dinner for a month, and look at you—why the hell are you wearing that piece-of-shit suit? I

should have tossed that in the Goodwill bin years ago.”

“Hey, lighten up. This was my biggest book signing event, and you came prancing down the

aisle like Madonna—”

“Whoa, guys, time out.” Bud powered off his cell phone. “Everybody take a deep breath

and let’s all just calm down. Maggie, this was a big night for Jonas too, maybe we should have

just waited in the limo.”

“A big night? Are you serious? Bud, you know how long I’ve waited for this opportunity,

how hard I had to work while I watched my husband flush his career down the toilet? Do you

know how many times we’ve had to refinance the house, live off credit cards, all because

Professor Taylor here insisted on studying dead sharks for a living? Now it’s my turn, and if he

12

THE

doesn’t want to be here, that’s fine by me. Let him wait in the limo. You can be my escort

tonight—at least you’re dressed for it.”

“Oh, no, keep me out of this,” Bud said, reaching for his drink.

Maggie frowned and looked out the window, the tension hanging in the air.

After a few long minutes, Bud broke the silence. “Hey, uh, I spoke with Henderson. He

thinks you’re a shoo-in for the award. This really could be the turning point in your career,

Maggie, assuming you win.”

Maggie turned to face him, managing to avoid looking at her husband. “I’ll win,” she said

defiantly. “I know I’ll win. Now pour me another drink.”

Bud obediently filled Maggie’s glass, then offered the bottle to Jonas.

Jonas shook his head and sat back in his seat, staring absently out the window at the passing

scenery, wondering who the blonde stranger was seated across from him.

Jonas Taylor had met Maggie Cobbs eleven years earlier in Massachusetts during his deep-

sea pilot training at the Woods Hole Oceanographic Institute. Maggie had been in her senior

year at Boston University, majoring in journalism. The petite blonde had at one time vigorously

pursued a modeling career, but lacked the required height. Upon entering college, she had

reset her sights on making it as a broadcast journalist.

Maggie had read about Jonas Taylor and his adventures aboard the Alvin submersible. She

knew the former college football star was a celebrity in his own right and found him physically

attractive. Under the guise of doing an article for the university press, she approached the

naval commander for an exclusive interview.

Jonas Taylor was amazed that anyone like Maggie Cobbs would be interested in deep-sea

diving. His naval career had left him little time for a social life, and when the beautiful blonde

showed signs of flirting, Jonas asked her out on a date. The following week he invited Maggie

to the Galapagos Islands during her last spring break. She accompanied him on one of his dives

in the Alvin submersible, after which things got hot and heavy.

Maggie was impressed by the influence Jonas wielded among his Navy peers, and loved the

excitement and adventure associated with ocean exploration. Ten months later they married.

The couple moved to San Diego, where Jonas began training for a top secret naval mission in

the western Pacific.

For the small-town girl from New Jersey, California proved to be the land of opportunity.

Within three years she branched out into investigative journalism working as a correspondent

at a local ABC flagship station.

And then disaster struck.

13

Steve Alten

Jonas had been training to pilot one of the Navy’s deep-sea submersibles into the Mariana

Trench. On his fourth dive in thirty-five thousand feet of water, the veteran pilot had panicked,

surfacing the sub too quickly. Pipes had burst, causing pressurization problems that led to the

deaths of the two scientists on board. Jonas had survived—barely—only to learn his command-

ing officer blamed him for the incident. The official report called it “aberrations of the deep,”

and the incident ended Jonas’s career in the Navy. Worse, it permanently scarred his psyche.

Three months in a mental hospital were followed by a dishonorable discharge and a severe

bout of depression. A year of private psychiatric sessions eventually helped refocus the goal-

oriented former naval officer, who decided to pursue advanced degrees in paleobiology. Jonas

would earn his doctorate degree, eventually writing a book on the subject of extinction among

deep-water species.

Without Jonas’s naval income, Maggie’s lifestyle quickly changed. The San Diego position

turned out to be a dead-end job, and her life was suddenly thrust into that of the mundane.

Then, by chance, Jonas ran into Bud Harris, his former roommate at Penn State University.

Harris had recently inherited his father’s shipping business in San Diego. He and Jonas took

in a few football games, but the paleobiologist was constantly doing research, leaving Maggie

to entertain her husband’s new best friend.

Bud used his father’s connections to get Maggie part-time work as a writer for the San

Diego Register. In turn, Maggie convinced her editor that Bud’s shipping business would make

an interesting article for the Sunday magazine. It was the excuse she needed to follow the bach-

elor millionaire around the harbor, with trips to his facilities in Long Beach, San Francisco, and

Honolulu. She interviewed him on his yacht, sat in on board meetings, took a ride on his

hovercraft, and spent many an afternoon learning how to sail.

The article she wrote became the Register’s cover story and was syndicated across North

America. Bud Harris’s charter business boomed. Not one to forget a favor, Bud helped Maggie

secure a weekend anchor spot with a San Diego television station, doing two-minute fillers for

the ten o’clock news. It wasn’t long before she was promoted, producing weekly features on

California and the West Coast.

While Jonas Taylor floundered as an author, Maggie Taylor was becoming a local celebrity.

Bud climbed out of the limo, extending a hand to Maggie. “Maybe I ought to get an award.

Whaddya think? Executive producer?”

“Not on your life,” she replied, handing her glass to the chauffeur. The alcohol had settled

her down a bit. She smiled at Bud as they ascended the stairs of the Hotel del Coronado, Jonas

lagging behind. “If they start giving you awards, there won’t be any left for me.”

14

THE

They passed through the main entrance beneath a gold banner announcing “The 15th

Annual San Diego MEDIA Awards.” Three enormous crystal chandeliers hung from the

vaulted wooden ceiling of the Crown Ballroom. A band played softly in the corner while well-

heeled guests picked at hors d’oeuvres and sipped drinks, wandering among tables draped with

white-and-gold tablecloths.

Jonas suddenly felt underdressed. Maggie had told him about the gala a month ago but had

never mentioned it was a black tie event.

He recognized a few television people in the crowd, provincial stars from the local news.

Harold Ray, the fifty-four-year-old co-anchor of Channel 9 Action News at Ten smiled broadly

as he said hello to Maggie. Ray had helped secure network funding for Maggie’s special about

the effects of offshore oil drilling on whale migrations along the California coast, and now the

piece was one of three competing for top honors in the “Environmental Issues Documentary”

category.

“You just may take home the Eagle tonight, Maggs, Ray said, his eyes wandering over her

tantalizing cleavage.

“What makes you so sure?” she cooed back.

“For one thing, I’m married to one of the judges.” Harold winked, then turned to Bud.

“And this must be Jonas. Harold Ray—”

“Bud Harris, friend of the family,” Bud replied, shaking his hand.

15

Steve Alten

“Bud’s my … executive producer,” Maggie said, smiling. She glanced at Jonas. “This is

Jonas.”

“Sorry, big guy, honest mistake. Say, didn’t we do a piece on you a couple years ago?

Something about dinosaur bones in the Salton Sea?”

“You may have. There were a lot of news people out there. It was an unusual find—”

“Excuse me, Jonas,” Maggie interrupted, “I’m just dying for a drink. Would you mind?”

Bud pointed a finger in the air. “Gin and tonic for me, J.T.”

Jonas looked at Harold Ray.

“Nothing for me, Doc, I’m a presenter tonight. One more drink and I’ll start making the

news instead of reporting it.”

Jonas forced a polite smile, then made his escape to the bar. The air was humid in the

windowless ballroom, and Jonas’s wool jacket felt prickly and hot. He asked for a beer, a glass

of champagne, and a gin and tonic. The bartender pulled a bottle of Carta Blanca out of the

ice. Jonas cooled his forehead with it and took a long draft.

He looked back at Maggie, who was still laughing with Bud and Harold.

“Another beer, sir?”

Jonas looked at his bottle, suddenly realizing he had emptied it. “Give me one of those,”

he said, pointing at the gin.

“Me too,” a voice said behind him. “With a lime.”

Jonas turned. It was the balding man from the book signing and lecture.

He looked at Jonas, peering over his wire-rimmed bifocals with the same tight grin on his

face. “Funny coincidence, meeting you here.”

Jonas regarded him suspiciously. “Did you follow me?”

“Hell no,” the man replied, scooping up a handful of almonds from the bar. He gestured

vaguely at the room. “I’m in the media.” He offered his hand. “David Adashek. Science

Journal.”

Jonas ignored it. “You’re playing a dangerous game, Mr. Adashek.”

“How so?”

“What is it you want?”

The man finished a mouthful of almonds, washing it down with a swig of his drink. “My

source told me you made the Mariana Trench dives; what he didn’t tell me was what you were

looking for.”

“Who’s your source?”

“Former Navy guy, just like you.” Adashek slipped another almond into his mouth, chewing

it noisily like a stick of gum. “Funny thing, though. I interviewed the fellow about it four years

ago. Couldn’t get a word out of him. Then last week he calls out of the blue, says if I want to

know what happened I ought to talk to you … Did I say something wrong, Doc?”

Jonas’s brown eyes blazed at the shorter man. “Be careful; I wouldn’t want to see you choke

on your nuts.” He turned, locating Maggie and Bud at their table.

16

THE

From the other side of the room, a pair of dark Asian eyes followed Jonas Taylor as he

made his way across the ballroom, watching as he took a seat next to the blonde.

Four hours and half a dozen drinks later, Jonas found himself staring at the Golden Eagle

now perched on the white tablecloth, a TV camera clutched in its claws. Maggie’s whale film

had beaten out a Discovery Channel project on the Farallon Islands and a Greenpeace docu-

mentary on the Japanese whaling industry. His wife’s acceptance speech had been largely a

passionate “save the whales” plea. Her concern for the cetaceans’ fate had inspired her to

make the film, or so she said.

Jonas wondered if he was the only one in the room who didn’t believe a word she was

saying.

Bud had passed out cigars. Harold Ray made a toast. Fred Henderson stopped by to offer

his congratulations, adding that if he wasn’t careful Maggie would get snapped up by a major

station in Los Angeles. Maggie feigned disinterest. Jonas knew she’d heard the rumors … she

had started many of them herself.

They were all dancing now. Maggie had taken Bud’s hand and led him onto the floor,

knowing Jonas wouldn’t object. How could he? He didn’t like to dance.

Jonas sat alone at the table, chewing the ice from his glass and trying to remember how

many gins he’d downed in the last few hours. He felt tired, had a slight headache, and all signs

pointed to a long evening still ahead. He got up and walked to the bar.

Harold Ray was there, picking up a bottle of wine and a pair of glasses.

“So how was Baja, professor?”

Jonas wondered if the man was drunk. “Baja?”

“The cruise.”

“What cruise?” He handed his glass to the bartender, nodded for a refill.

Ray laughed. “I warned her three days was no vacation. Look at you, you’ve already

forgotten.”

“Baja? You mean … last week.” Then it hit him. The business trip to San Francisco. The

tan. Bud Harris.

“Too many margaritas, professor?”

Jonas stared for a long moment at the glass in his hand, then scanned the dance floor for

his wife. The band was playing “Crazy,” the lights dimmed low, the couples dancing close. He

located Maggie and Bud, clinging together like a pair of drunks. Bud’s hands were caressing

her back, working their way down. Jonas watched as his wife repositioned his hands to her

buttocks, kissing him on the lips.

Blood rushed into Jonas’s face, the veins in his neck throbbing. He slammed his drink

down, then made his way awkwardly across the dance floor.

17

Steve Alten

Oblivious, Maggie and Bud continued to grind their groins against one another, lost in their

own world.

Jonas tapped Bud on the shoulder. “Excuse me, pal, but I think that’s my wife’s ass in your

hand.”

Maggie and Bud stopped dancing, a look of apprehension coming over the millionaire’s

face. “Easy big guy, I was only—”

The right cross was a glancing blow, but still had enough force to send Bud crashing into

another couple, all three sprawling to the dance floor.

The band stopped playing.

The lights came up.

Maggie looked at Jonas, aghast. “Are you crazy?”

Jonas rubbed his sore knuckles. “Do me a favor, Maggie. Next time you take a cruise to

Baja, don’t come back.” He turned and left the dance floor, the alcohol spinning the room as

he strode toward the exit.

Jonas stepped out the front entrance and ripped off his tie. A uniformed valet asked him

for his parking stub.

“I don’t have a car.”

“Would you like a taxi, then?”

“He doesn’t need one. I’m his ride.” Terry Tanaka stepped out the door behind him.

“Man, when it rains it pours. What is it you want, Tracy?”

“It’s Terry, and we need to talk.”

“You talk, I need to puke.” He staggered down the block, searching for a trash can, settling

for the back of a dumpster.

Terry turned her back as he heaved his dinner. She searched her purse, then tossed him a

pack of gum when he finished. “Now can we talk?”

“Look, Trixie …”

“Terry!”

Jonas sat on the curb and combed his fingers through his hair. His head was throbbing.

“What is it you want?”

“Following you here … it wasn’t my idea. My father sent me.”

Jonas glanced back at her. “Masao’s an old friend. Find me on Monday, we’ll talk. This isn’t

exactly a good time …”

“Ever hear of UNIS?”

“Is that your sister? No wait … it’s some kind of deep ROV, isn’t it?”

“Unmanned Nautical Informational Submersible. UNIS. Our institute holds the patents.

18

THE

They’re made for deep-water assignments, their hulls able to withstand 19,000 pounds per

square inch of pressure.”

“I’m happy for you. Now I need to find a cab and a bottle of aspirin.”

She removed a manila envelope from her purse and shoved it in his face. “Look at this.”

He opened the envelope and pulled out a black-and-white photograph taken underwater.

The image was of a UNIS, lying on its side, its hull crushed almost beyond recognition.

Jonas looked back at the woman. “Where was this drone deployed?”

“The Mariana Trench.”

19

UNIS

THE DODGE CARAVAN sped along the rain-slick streets of San Diego. Terry was at the

wheel, the rental car challenging every yellow traffic light. Jonas laid back in the passenger seat,

the window open, the cool breeze soothing his headache and sore knuckles. His eyes remained

open and on the road—the woman’s driving was making him nervous—but he kept studying

the photograph in his mind.

Taken 35,000 feet beneath the surface of the western Pacific, the black-and-white photo-

graph showed a spherical remote-sensing device resting near a dark canyon wall. Jonas was

somewhat familiar with these remarkable robotic devices, having followed their development

in science journals. He had heard rumors that JAMSTEC, the Japan Marine Science and

Technology Center, was involved with the Tanaka Institute in a joint project.

“My father agreed to deploy twenty-five UNIS drones into the Challenger Deep in exchange

for financing for our whale lagoon in Monterey,” Terry told him as they reached the freeway.

“The UNIS array is essentially an earthquake early warning system designed to monitor

tremors along a 125-mile stretch of the underwater canyon where the Philippine Sea Plate

meets the Pacific Plate. Within days of the system’s deployment, our surface ship, the Kiku,

began receiving a steady stream of data, and seismologists on both sides of the Pacific were

eagerly studying the information.

“Then something went wrong. Three weeks after the array was up and running one of the

drones stopped transmitting data. A week later, two more units shut down. When another one

stopped a few days after that, JAMSTEC cut off our funding, demanding my father repair the

array.”

Terry looked at Jonas. “He sent my brother, D.J., down in the Abyss Glider to video one

of the damaged units.”

“Alone?”

“D.J.’s the most experienced pilot we have, but I agree with you. In fact, I argued with

Masao to allow me to escort him down in the second glider.”

“You?”

Terry glared at him. “You have a problem with that? I happen to be a damn good pilot.”

20

THE

“I’m sure you are, but at thirty-five thousand feet? What’s the deepest you’ve ever soloed?”

“I’ve hit sixteen thousand twice, no problem.”

“Not bad,” Jonas admitted.

“You mean, not bad for a woman?”

“Easy, Gloria Steinem, I meant not bad for anyone. Very few humans have been down that

deep.”

She forced a smile. “Sorry. It gets frustrating, you know. My father is strictly old-fashioned

Japanese; his grandmother was a geisha. Women are to be seen and not heard. It drives me

crazy.”

“Finish the story. What happened with D.J.? I assume he took this photo?”

“Yes. The photo came from his sub’s night vision camera.”

Jonas glanced again at the photograph. The titanium sphere had been cracked open, its

tripod legs were mangled, a bolted bracket torn off. The hull itself looked battered beyond

recognition.

“Where’s the sonar plate?”

“D.J. found it forty feet down current. He managed to haul it to the surface—it’s back at

the Institute in Monterey. That’s why I tracked you down. My father needs you to take a look

at it.”

Jonas stared at her skeptically. “Why me?”

“He didn’t say. You can fly up with me in the morning and ask him. I’m taking the Institute’s

plane back at eight.”

Lost in thought, Jonas almost missed his house. “There—on the left.”

She turned down the long, leaf-littered driveway, then parked in front of a single-story

Colonial buried in foliage.

Terry switched off the engine. Jonas turned to her and narrowed his eyes. “Masao sent you

all this way, just so I could render an opinion on scrap metal?”

“My father needs advice about redeploying along the Challenger Deep.”

“You want my advice? Stay the hell out of the Mariana Trench. It’s far too dangerous to

be exploring, especially in a one-man submersible.”

“Everything’s dangerous to a man who’s lost his nerve. D.J. and I are good pilots, we can

handle this. What the hell happened to you anyway? I was only seventeen when we first met,

but you were different. I still remember your piss-and-vinegar attitude. I was actually attracted

to your swagger.”

“Swagger leaves you when you grow old.”

“You’re not old, but you are afraid. What are you so afraid of? A sixty-foot prehistoric

great white shark?”

“Maybe I’m afraid of Asian women with too much swagger.”

She smirked. “Let me tell you something—the data we collected during those first weeks

the UNIS array was functioning was invaluable. If the earthquake detection system works, it’ll

21

Steve Alten

save thousands of lives. No one’s asking you to dive the Challenger Deep, we simply want your

opinion on why the UNIS was damaged. Is your schedule so damn busy that you can’t take a

day to fly up to the Institute? My father’s asking for your help. Examine the sonar plate and

review the video that my brother took and you’ll be home to your darling wife by tomorrow

night. We’ll pay you for your time, and I’m sure Dad will even arrange a personal tour of our

new whale lagoon.”

Jonas took a breath. He considered Masao Tanaka a friend, a commodity he seemed to be

running short of lately. “When would we leave?”

“Meet me tomorrow morning at the commuter airport, seven-thirty sharp.”

“The commuter … we’re taking one of those puddle jumpers?” Jonas swallowed hard.

“Relax. I know the pilot. See you in the morning.”

Jonas exited the van and watched her drive away. “What the hell are you doing, J.T.?”

Jonas shut the door behind him and switched on the light, feeling for a moment like a

stranger in his own home. The house was dead quiet. A trace of Maggie’s perfume lingered in

the air. She won’t be home until late. Ah, who are you kidding, she won’t be home at all.

He went into the kitchen, pulled a bottle of vodka from the cabinet, then changed his mind

and turned on the coffee maker. He replaced the filter and added some coffee, then filled the

slot with water. He ran the faucet, sucked cold water from the spigot, and rinsed out his mouth.

For a long moment he stood at the sink, staring out the back window while the coffee

brewed. It was dark out back, all he could see was his reflection in the glass.

A favorite Talking Heads song kept replaying in his mind …

And you may tell yourself, this is not my beautiful house, and you may tell yourself, this is not

my beautiful wife. Same as it ever was … Same as it ever was … Same as it ever was …

When the coffee was done, he grabbed a mug and the pot of coffee and went into his study.

Sanctuary. The one room in the house that was truly his own. The walls were covered with

contour maps of the ocean’s continental margins, mountain ranges, abyssal plains and deep-sea

trenches. Fossilized Megalodon teeth cluttered the shelves of a glass bookcase, sitting upright

in their plastic support holders like small, lead-gray stalagmites. A framed photo of a great

white shark hung above his desk, sent to him by Andrew Fox, son of Rodney, the famous

Australian photographer who had nearly been bitten in two by a similar creature many years

ago. Now the entire Fox family made a living taking pictures of the very animal that had

scarred Rodney for life … and had given him a new livelihood.

Jonas set the coffee mug down beside his computer, then positioned himself at the

keyboard. A set of jaws from a twelve-foot great white gaped at him from high above his

monitor. He punched a few keys to access the Internet, then typed in the Web address of the

Tanaka Oceanographic Institute.

22

THE

Jonas sipped the hot coffee as he waited for the website to upload. He typed in the word

“UNIS.”

UNIS: Unmanned Nautical Informational Submersible

Designed and developed by the Tanaka Oceanographic Institute to track seismic disturb-

ances along the sea floor. The UNIS system is composed of a three-inch-thick titanium

outer shell. The unit is supported by three retractable legs and weighs 935 pounds. UNIS

is designed to withstand pressures of 19,000 pounds per square inch and communicates

information back to a surface ship by way of fiber-optic cable.

Jonas reviewed the engineering reports of the UNIS systems, impressed by the simplicity

of the design. Positioned along a seismic fault line, their tripod legs burrowing deep into the

ocean floor, the UNIS remotes could detect the telltale signs of an earthquake or an impending

tsunami, providing, as Terry had said, an invaluable early warning system.

Southern Japan had the misfortune of being geographically located within a convergence

zone of three major tectonic plates. Periodically, these plates ground against one another,

generating about one-tenth of the world’s annual earthquakes. One devastating Japanese

quake in 1923 had killed more than 140,000 people.

Masao Tanaka had been desperately seeking a bank to underwrite his dream project, a

man-made cetacean lagoon located off the coast of Monterey. JAMSTEC had agreed to fund

the Tanaka Institute in exchange for the completion of the UNIS early warning system.

Now the system’s breakdown was pushing the Tanaka Institute toward bankruptcy, and

Masao needed Jonas’s help.

He drained his coffee cup.

The Challenger Deep. Submersible pilots referred to it as “hell’s antechamber.”

Jonas just called it hell.

Six miles away, Terry Tanaka, freshly showered and wrapped in a hotel bath towel, sat on

the edge of her queen-sized bed at the Holiday Inn, her blood pressure still elevated. Jonas

Taylor had really irked her. The man was obstinate, with strong chauvinistic ideas. Why her

father had insisted their team seek his input was beyond her.

Pulling out her briefcase, she decided to review the personnel file on Professor Jonas

Taylor.

She knew the basics by heart. Bachelor of Science from Penn State University, advanced

degrees from the University of California, San Diego and Scripps Institute of Oceanography,

trained at the Woods Hole Oceanographic Institute as a submersible pilot and now had just

published a controversial book on paleobiology. At one time, Jonas Taylor had been

23

Steve Alten

considered one of the most experienced argonauts in the world. He had piloted the Alvin

submersible seventeen times, leading multiple explorations to four different deep-sea trenches.

And then, seven years ago, for some unknown reason, he had simply given it all up.

“Doesn’t make sense,” Terry said aloud. Thinking back to the lecture earlier that evening,

she remembered the balding man who had revealed that Jonas had piloted a naval expedition

into the Mariana Trench. Her father knew this of course; it was the reason he had sent her to

bring Jonas into their council.

The three-month stay in a mental ward, however, was news to her.

Terry powered up her laptop. She entered her password, then accessed the Institute’s

computers, searching for “Mariana Trench.”

MARIANA TRENCH

LOCATION: Western Pacific Ocean, east of Philippines, close to island of Guam.

FACTS: Deepest known depression on Earth. Measures 35,827 feet deep (10,920 m), over

1,550 miles long (2,500 km), averages 40 miles in width, making the trench the deepest

abyss on the planet and the second longest. The deepest area of the Mariana Trench is

called the Challenger Deep. Note: A 5 pound bowling ball dropped from the surface would

require more than an hour of descent time to reach bottom.

EXPLORATION (MANNED):

On January 23, 1960, the U.S. Navy bathyscaphe Trieste descended 35,800 feet (10,911

m), nearly touching the bottom of the Challenger Deep. On board were U.S. Navy Lt.

Donald Walsh and Swiss oceanographer Jacques Piccard. In the same year, the French

bathyscaphe Archimède completed a similar dive. In each case, the bathyscaphes simply

descended and returned to the surface ship.

Trieste

Bathyscaphe

24

THE

Archimède Bathyscaphe

EXPLORATION (UNMANNED):

In 1993, the Japanese launched Kaiko, an unmanned robotic craft, which descended to

35,798 feet before breaking down.

Kaiko

Unmanned

Robotic

Craft

25

Steve Alten

Terry skimmed through the file, skipping the recent reference to the UNIS deployment.

Nothing about Jonas Taylor here, or the naval dives seven years ago.

She signed off and closed the laptop, thinking back to the lecture.

Her first meeting with Jonas Taylor had been ten years ago at a symposium held in San

Francisco, sponsored by the Tanaka Oceanographic Institute. Masao had invited the deep-sea

Navy pilot to speak about his dive into the Puerto Rican sea trench. At the time, Terry was

fresh out of high school. She had worked closely with her father, organizing the symposium,

coordinating travel and hotel arrangements for more than seventy scientists from around the

world. She had booked Jonas’s ticket and met him at the airport herself. She recalled

developing a schoolgirl crush on the deep-sea pilot with the athletic build.

Terry looked at his picture again in her file. Tonight, Taylor had clearly lacked the

confidence of their earlier meeting. He was still a physical specimen, possessing a handsome

face, bearing a few more stress lines around the eyes. The dark brown hair was turning gray

near the temples. Six foot three, she guessed, about 195. But something was missing on the

inside.

What had happened to the man? And why had her father insisted on locating him? As far

as Terry was concerned, Jonas Taylor’s involvement was the last thing the UNIS project

needed.

Jonas woke up on his office sofa, his wool suit jacket serving as a blanket. A dog was

barking somewhere in the neighborhood. He squinted at the clock: 6:08 a.m.

He sat up slowly, his aching head pounding, his foot knocking over the half-empty coffee

pot, staining the beige carpet brown. Computer printouts from the overflowing catch tray were

scattered around him. He rubbed his bloodshot eyes, then glanced at the computer. His screen

saver was on. He tapped the mouse, revealing a diagram of the UNIS remote, glowing on

screen. His memory came flooding back.

The dog stopped barking. The house seemed unusually quiet. Jonas got up, went into the

hallway, and walked down to the master bedroom.

Maggie wasn’t there. Their bed hadn’t been touched.

26

THE LAGOON

TERRY TANAKA SPOTTED Jonas as he crossed the airport tarmac from the parking lot. She

jogged out to meet him.

“Good morning, professor” she said, just a little bit too loud. “How’s your head?”

“Don’t ask.” He shifted his carry-on bag to his other shoulder. “Talk softer, and stop calling

me professor. It’s Jonas or J.T. Professor makes me feel old.” He eyed the waiting plane. “Kind

of small, isn’t it?”

“Not for a Beechcraft.”

The plane was a twin-turbo, with a whale logo and “T.O.I.” painted on the fuselage. Jonas

climbed aboard, tossed his bag behind him, then looked around. “Okay, where’s the pilot?”

She gave him a mock salute.

“You? No way—”

“Hey, let’s not start that chauvinistic crap again. I’m licensed and qualified, and if it makes

you feel any better, I’ve been flying for six years.”

Jonas nodded uneasily. It didn’t make him feel better.

“Are you all right?” she asked as he fumbled with his seat belt. “You look a little pale.”

“Low blood sugar.”

“In back’s a small cooler, might be some apples. If you’d rather sit in back, there’s plenty

of room to stretch out. Barf bags are in the side pocket.” She smiled innocently.

“You’re enjoying this.”

“In all honesty, I never imagined an experienced deep-sea pilot like you would be so

squeamish.”

“Just fly the damn plane,” he said, his eyes compulsively scanning the dials and meters on

the control panel. The cockpit was a little tight, the copilot seat felt jammed up against the

windshield. He searched for a level to adjust his leg room.

“Sorry, that’s as far back as it goes.”

He swallowed dryly. “I need a glass of water.”

She noticed his trembling hands. “In back.”

Jonas got up and struggled into the rear compartment.

27

Steve Alten

“There’s beer in the fridge,” she called out.

Jonas unzipped his bag, found his shaving kit, and took out a prescription bottle filled with

small yellow pills.

Claustrophobia. His doctor had diagnosed the problem after the accident, a psychosomatic

reaction to the stress he had endured. A deep-sea pilot with claustrophobia was as useless as

a high diver with vertigo. The two just didn’t mix.

Jonas chased down two of the pills with a bottled water. He stared at his trembling hand,

then closed his eyes and took a long, deep breath. When he reopened them he was no longer

shaking.

“You okay?”

Jonas looked up at her. “I told you, I’m fine.”

It was a two-hour flight to Monterey. The pills eventually took effect, allowing Jonas to

relax. They were following the coastline north, flying over Big Sur, one of the most dramatic

landscapes on the planet. For seventy-two miles violent Pacific waves crashed against the foot

of the Santa Lucia Mountains, all bordered by California’s scenic Highway 1, a mountainous

roadway with harsh grades, twin bridges, and blind turns.

28

THE

Terry spotted a pod of whales migrating south along the shore. “Grays,” she said.

“Cruising to Baja,” he mumbled, thinking of Maggie.

“Jonas, listen … about the lecture. I didn’t mean to come off so harshly. It’s just that my

father insisted I find you, and frankly, I didn’t see the purpose of wasting your time. I mean,

it’s not like we need another submersible pilot.”

“Good, because I wouldn’t be interested.”

“Good, because we don’t need you!” She felt her blood beginning to boil again. “Maybe

you could convince my father to allow me to follow D.J. down in the second Abyss Glider?”

“Pass.” He gazed out his window.

“Why not?”

“First, I’ve never seen you pilot a sub—”

“I’m piloting this plane.”

“It’s totally different. You’re dealing with harsh currents, perpetual darkness and unnerving

water pressure.”

“Pressure? You want pressure? Hold on.” Terry pulled back on the wheel.

Jonas grabbed the dash in front of him as the Beechcraft rolled into a series of tight 360s,

then dropped into a nauseating near-vertical nosedive.

Terry righted the plane at 1,500 feet.

Jonas grabbed an airsick bag and puked.

29

Steve Alten

San Diego

David Adashek adjusted his wire-rimmed bifocals, then knocked on the double doors of

Suite 810. No reply. He knocked again, this time louder.

The door opened, revealing a groggy Maggie Taylor, wearing nothing but a white robe. It

was loosely tied, exposing one of her tan breasts.

“David? Christ, what time is it?”

“Nine a.m. Rough night?”

She smiled, still half asleep. “Not as rough as my soon-to-be ex-husband’s. Come in before

someone sees you.”

Adashek entered. She pointed to a pair of white sofas that faced a big-screen TV in the

living area. “Sit.”

“Where’s Bud?”

Maggie curled up on the far sofa opposite Adashek. “He left about an hour ago to play golf.

You did a nice job of harassing Jonas at the lecture.”

“Is all this really necessary, Maggie? He seems like a decent enough guy—”

“So you marry him. After ten years, I’ve had enough.”

“Why not just divorce him and get it over with?”

“It’s not that simple. Now that I’m gaining traction as a local celebrity, my agent says we

have to be very careful about the public’s perception. Jonas still has a lot of friends in this town.

He has to come off as a lunatic. People have to believe that his actions brought this divorce on.

Last night was a good start.”

“The mental ward thing was a low blow.”

“I play to win. Where’s Jonas now?”

Adashek pulled out his notes. “He went home with the Tanaka woman.”

“Jonas? With another woman?” Maggie laughed hysterically.

“It was innocent. Just a ride home from the awards. I followed him to the commuter airport

earlier this morning. They’re headed to Monterey. My guess is to that new whale lagoon the

Tanaka Oceanographic Institute is constructing along the coast.”

“Keep me informed. By the end of the week I want you to go public with the Navy story,

emphasizing the fact that two innocent civilians were killed. Once the story gains traction you’ll

do a follow-up interview with me, then I’ll push for the divorce, public humiliation and all.”

“You’re the boss. Listen, if I’m going to be following Jonas, I’ll need more cash.”

Maggie pulled a thick envelope out of her robe pocket. “Bud says to save the receipts.”

Yeah, thought Adashek, I’m sure he needs the write-off.

Monterey

“There it is.” Terry pointed to the coastline as they descended toward Monterey Bay.

Jonas sipped the coke, his stomach still jumpy from Terry’s little air show. His head

30

THE

pounded, and he had already made up his mind to leave immediately after meeting with

Masao. As far as he was concerned, Terry Tanaka was the last pilot he’d ever recommend to

descend to the bottom of the Challenger Deep.

Looking down, he saw an empty white shell stretched out like a giant bathtub on a five-

square-mile parcel of land just south of Moss Landing. From the air it looked like an emptied

oval-shaped swimming pool. Lying parallel to the ocean, the structure was just over three-

quarters of a mile in length and a quarter mile wide. From having read articles on its construc-

tion, Jonas knew it was over one-hundred-and-twenty-feet deep, its underwater viewing area,

located along its southern end, featuring galley windows three stories high. A concrete canal

intersected the western section of the lagoon and merged with the deep waters of the Pacific.

The lagoon held no water. If and when it was ever finished, the massive steel doors located

at the canal entrance would open and the lagoon would fill with seawater, rendering it the

largest man-made aquarium in the world.

“Impressive. If I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes, I wouldn’t have believed it,” Jonas said

as they prepared to land.

Terry nodded. “My father’s dream. He designed it to be a living laboratory, a natural yet

protective environment for its future inhabitants. Each winter tens of thousands of whales

migrate along California’s coastal waters to Baja. Masao is convinced we can coax a few

pregnant females inside to give birth.”

Jonas nodded. “Marine science meets family entertainment.”

Forty minutes later, Jonas found himself in the Tanaka Institute’s empty parking lot, the

lagoon’s owner and CEO exiting a set of glass doors to greet him.

“Taylor-san!” Masao Tanaka strode across the tarmac to shake Jonas’s hand. The tall

Japanese man was in his early sixties, his gray hair tucked behind a San Francisco Giants base-

ball cap, his goatee white, contrasting with his tan complexion. The almond eyes were full of

life.

“Let me look at you. Ah, you look like shit. Smell like it too. What’s wrong? You don’t like

flying with my daughter?”

“No, as a matter of fact, I don’t.” Jonas gave the girl a look to kill.

Masao glanced at his daughter. “Terry?”

“His fault, Masao. It’s not my problem if he can’t handle the pressure. I’ll be in the projec-

tion room.” She headed inside the building, leaving them to talk.

“My apologies, Taylor-san. Terry is very headstrong, she is somewhat of a free spirit. It is

difficult raising a daughter without a female role model.”

“Forget it. I really came up to see you and your whale lagoon. Looks amazing from up

there.”

31

Steve Alten

“I’ll give you a tour later. Come, we’ll get you a fresh shirt. Then I want you to meet my

chief engineer, Alphonse DeMarco. He is reviewing the video D.J. took in the trench. Jonas,

I really need your input.”

Jonas tossed his bag over his shoulder and followed Masao inside.

The lobby was unfinished, the floor still bare concrete. There were abandoned scaffolds by

the drywall, canisters of plaster and paint half-covered with a drop cloth.

Masao led him past empty twenty-foot-high cylinder-shaped saltwater tanks to a souvenir

shop. Using a pocketknife, he cut open a box labeled XXL and tossed Jonas a tee-shirt. “Your

pay for the day.”

“Thanks.” Jonas stripped off his soiled shirt and pulled on the cotton tee-shirt, the front

emblazoned with an artist’s rendition of gray whales inside the Tanaka Lagoon.

A stairwell led them downstairs. A long maintenance corridor harbored the massive

filtration systems that would one day hum to life.

At the end of the hall was a media room.

A short man with dark curly hair and a wrestler’s physique was seated before a control

console, a large projection screen taking up most of the forward wall. Terry occupied a leather

wrap-around couch facing the screen.

“Jonas Taylor, this is my chief engineer Alphonse DeMarco. Al, this is the submersible pilot

I’ve been bragging to you about.”

Jonas shook the man’s hand, which was heavily calloused and felt like it could crush steel.

“Have a seat, Commander Taylor. We were just looking at footage D.J. took of the dam-

aged UNIS.”

Avoiding Terry, Jonas sat down in a folding chair as DeMarco dimmed the lights.

The video was shot using a night-vision lens, giving the footage an olive-green tint. The

UNIS was lying on its side, its exposed flank crushed like a beer can.

Masao took the empty chair on Jonas’s right. “D.J. found it fifty yards south of its original

position. These systems weigh close to half a ton. They are lowered into position using a large

A-frame mounted in our surface ship. For the current to have moved this half the length of a

football field … impossible.”

Jonas rose from his seat and approached the screen. “What do you think happened?”

DeMarco zoomed in, revealing the scarred titanium surface. “The simplest explanation’s

always the best. The robot got caught in a seismic event. The subduction zone can be pretty

violent.”

Jonas examined the sonar plate Tanaka’s son had retrieved on his last dive, the section of

titanium lying on an oak work table. He touched the dented metal surface. “The titanium

casing’s three-inches thick. I’ve seen the stress-test data—”

“Once the UNIS’s shell loses its integrity, the water pressure takes over and the titanium

might as well be aluminum.”

“But again, what would cause it to lose its integrity?”

32

THE

DeMarco zoomed out on the video. “You tell us, that’s why we brought you here.”

Jonas stared at the video footage, his mind drifting back to his last dive in the trench. He

had never seen the Challenger Deep sea floor, his mission confining him above the hydro-

thermal plume. He looked back at DeMarco. “What about the other three damaged robots?

Were they crushed the same way?”

“We’ve only accessed this one unit, so it’s impossible to say.”

Jonas turned toward the monitor. “You’ve lost four units. Isn’t it pushing the limits of

probability to say they’ve all been destroyed by seismic activity?”

DeMarco removed his reading glasses and rubbed his eyes. He’d had this argument with

Masao more than once. “The purpose of the array is to detect seismic activity. To detect seismic

activity required us to distribute the UNIS ’bots along a fault line. Three of the four downed

systems were all located in the same sector of the Challenger Deep. I’d say those factors even

out the probability odds significantly.”

Masao stood. “Jonas, the future of this facility depends on our ability to determine what

happened to these robots and correct the situation immediately. We’ve located the last UNIS,

the only one of the four not located directly along the fault line. I’ve decided we must retrieve

this robot. The job requires two subs working together: one to clear debris from the O-ring

used to hoist the unit topside while the other pilot attaches the tow cable.”

“I’m going, Masao,” Terry said. “I’ve trained for this, I can get it done.”

Masao was about to reply when Jonas yelled, “Stop the tape.” He pointed to the screen.

“Al, go back about twenty seconds.”

DeMarco rewound the video.

“Good, that’s good. Let it play again from there.”

They stared at the screen, seeing nothing new.

“There—can you freeze that frame?”

DeMarco complied.

Jonas pointed to a tiny white fragment lying beneath the tripod legs. “Can you blow that

up?”

The engineer punched some buttons and a square outline appeared on screen. Moving a

joystick, he positioned the square around the object, then pulled it out so that it filled the

entire screen.

The object appeared triangular and white, still a bit too out-of-focus to identify.

Jonas stared at the screen. “It’s a tooth.”

DeMarco moved closer to the screen, scrutinizing the image. “A tooth? You’re nuts.”

“Al,” commanded Masao. “Show the proper respect to our guest.”

“Sorry, Mas, but what our professor here’s saying is impossible. You see that?” He pointed

to a bolt dangling from a titanium strut. “That bolt is three inches long. That would mean this

tooth, or whatever it is, would be twice that length … at least six, maybe seven inches long.”

He looked at Masao. “There’s no creature on Earth with teeth that big.”

33

MASAO

THE SURFACE OF THE PACIFIC OCEAN sparkled like diamonds beyond the western

bleachers; a cold wind howled through the barren canal.

The man-made lagoon was spread out before them like God’s bathtub. Massive drains were

set along its walls, part of a massive filtration system. A glint of sun reflected off the acrylic

windows situated along the southern wall twenty feet below the main deck, the gallery

accessible from inside the arena.

The arena itself provided bench-style seating for 10,000.

Jonas was awestruck by the lagoon’s sheer size. “To see a pod of gray whales inhabiting this

waterway, or better yet a few humpbacks … you could watch them for days on end and not be

bored.”

34

THE

Masao Tanaka nodded, warming his face in the late afternoon sun. “This lagoon has been

my dream since I was six years old. Forty million dollars, almost seven years of planning, four

years of construction, Jonas. I did all I could, gave it everything I had.”

He turned and faced him. “I fear, my friend, that we will never see her open.”

Terry was straddling a rail five rows down, her back to them.

Masao lowered his voice. “Taylor-san, with all due respect, I don’t see how this object on

the video could possibly be a tooth.”

“It’s a bottom tooth. You can tell the difference; the upper teeth are much wider, they were

used for crushing whale bone. The bottoms are narrow, designed to puncture and grip prey.”

“The object was white, Jonas. There are no white Megalodon teeth.”

“Mas, white indicates it’s not a fossil, that the creature who owned it may still be alive. It’s

the reason we have to retrieve that tooth. It proves my theories.”

“Your theories?” Terry slid down from the rail and approached. “Are those the same

theories that landed you in a mental ward for three months? The theories that earned your

dishonorable discharge? Here’s a reality check for you, Professor—there are no giant

prehistoric great white sharks in the Mariana Trench or any other trench, for that matter. And

even if there were, since when do sharks eat titanium robots?”

“They don’t,” Jonas snapped, “unless the titanium robots happen to be transmitting

electrical signals, like your UNIS.” He turned to Masao. “Years ago, I was hired by AT&T to

investigate problems they were having with a fiber-optic cable system. They had just laid cable

along the ocean floor in six thousand feet of water, the line encased in stainless-steel mesh, and

yet the sharks were still attacking it, tearing it up, costing the company millions of dollars in

repairs. The sharks’ ampullae of Lorenzini were attracted to the electronic booster signals

originating in the fiber-optic bundles.”

“Ampullae of who?” Terry sneered.

“Lorenzini,” Jonas shot back. “It’s a cluster of sensory cells located along the underside of

the shark’s snout. Masao please, I need D.J. to recover that tooth; it’s very important to me.”

“What if I offered you an opportunity to collect the tooth yourself?”

Terry’s almond eyes blazed. “No, no, no. If anyone’s descending with D.J., it’ll be me!”

“Enough.” Masao looked at his daughter, the old man’s eyes fierce. “I will speak to my

guest about this; for you, this discussion is over.”

Terry glared at Jonas then stormed off.

Masao closed his eyes, taking a few slow, deep breaths through his nose, exhaling from his

mouth. “You will stay with us tonight as my guest. My daughter is a very good cook.”

Jonas looked at his friend. “I’m sure she is. I just might need a food taster to make sure she

didn’t drop arsenic into my serving.”

Masao smiled and breathed deeply again. “Jonas, you smell that ocean air? Makes you

appreciate nature, eh?”

“Yes.”

35

Steve Alten

“My father … he was a fisherman. Back in Japan, he would take me out on his boat almost

every morning before school. My mother, Kiku Tanaka, died when I was only four. There was

no one else to take care of me. Just my father.

“When I was six, we moved to America to live with relatives in San Francisco. Four months

later, the Japanese attacked Pearl Harbor. All Asians were locked in detention camps. My

father … he was a very proud man. He could never accept the fact that he was in a prison,

unable to fish, unable to live his life. One morning, my father just decided to die. He left me

all alone, locked in a prison in a foreign land, unable to speak or understand a word of

English.”

“You must’ve been pretty scared.”

Masao smiled. “Very scared. Then I saw my first whale. From the prison gates, I could see

them leap. The humpbacks, they sang to me, kept me company at night, occupied my mind.

My only friends.” He closed his eyes for a moment, lost in the memory. “They bussed us out

to Idaho a month after my father died. The Minidoka War Relocation Camp. This is where I

learned to speak English.

“You know, Taylor-san, Americans are funny people. One minute you feel hated by them,

the next loved. After eighteen months, I was released and adopted by an American couple,

Jeffrey and Gay Gordon. I was very lucky. The Gordon family loved me, supported me, put me

through school. But when I felt depressed, it was always my whales that kept me going.”

“Now I understand why this project means so much to you.”

“Hai. Learning about whales is very important. In many ways they are superior to man. But

capturing and imprisoning them in small tanks, forcing them to perform stupid tricks so they

can receive their rations of food, this is very cruel. This lagoon, it will allow me to study the

whales in a natural setting. The lagoon will remain open so the whales can enter and exit of

their own free will. No more small tanks. Having been locked up myself, I could never do that.

Never.”

“The lagoon will open, Masao. JAMSTEC won’t hold the money back forever.”

Masao shook his head. “Unless we can get the array working again, the project is

cancelled.”

“What about finding another funding source?”

“I tried, but my assets are already heavily leveraged and no bank will support my venture.

Only JAMSTEC. But they don’t care about building lagoons, they just want the UNIS array

to monitor earthquakes. The Japanese government will not back down, there are political

careers at stake. We either fix the array or declare bankruptcy.”

“You’ll finish the lagoon, Masao. We’ll figure out what happened.”

“Jonas, you and I are friends. I tell you my story, now you tell your old friend Tanaka the

truth. What happened to you in the Mariana Trench?”

“What makes you think—”

“Masao smiled knowingly. “We’ve known each other … what? Ten years? Do not under-

36

THE

estimate me, my friend. I have contacts in the Navy as well in the Pentagon. I read a report

filed by your commanding officer, Richard Danielson. Now I want to hear your side.”

Jonas rubbed his eyes. “Okay, Masao, for some reason it seems the story’s being leaked

anyway. First off, Danielson wasn’t my C.O., he was assigned to Guam when our mission

began, then ended up overseeing the dives as they were in his waters. I had trained for the

mission for several years along with three other pilots, two of which eventually dropped out.

“The sub was called the Sea Cliff; the Navy having refitted her to handle the Challenger

Deep. Three teams of scientists were flown out to supervise the mission. I was briefed with

some bullshit story about measuring deep-sea currents in the trench in order to determine if

plutonium rods from nuclear power plants could be safely buried within the subduction zone.

Funny thing—when we descended on that first dive the eggheads were suddenly no longer

interested in currents, what they came for were rocks.”

“Rocks?”

“Manganese nodules. Don’t ask me why they wanted them, I haven’t a clue. My orders

were to pilot the sub down to the hydrothermal plume and remain there while the geologists

operated a remotely-controlled drone designed with a vacuum.”

Jonas closed his eyes. “The first dive went okay; the second was three days later and by the

time I had surfaced again I was seeing double.”

“What about the other pilot?”

“He wasn’t ready. I made a third dive four days later, and then a storm front moved in.

“The eggheads decided the last patch of rocks was the Holy Grail and demanded one last

dive. It was barely forty-eight hours after my last dive and I wasn’t fit enough to operate a TV

remote, let alone a submersible. But with a little prodding from Dick Danielson the ship’s

physician, Frank Heller, certified me ready.”

Masao shook his head. “Go on.”

“I managed to get us to the plume. The scientists were busy conducting tests when sonar

picked up a school of squid. There must have been a river of them … they passed beneath us

like a freight train. Then sonar picked up another biologic, only this one was clearly a predator.

It circled and then moved off. Anyway, two hours later I was gazing out the porthole, staring

down at the swirling hydrothermal plume when I thought I saw something big circling just

below the layer.”

“What can you see in darkness?”

“I’m not sure, but the sub’s light reflected off something large and white. At first I thought

it could be a whale, but I knew that was impossible. Then it just disappeared. I figured I had

to be hallucinating.”

“What happened next?”

“I … to tell you the truth, Masao, I’m not sure. I was so tired, I could barely keep my eyes

open … but suddenly this huge triangular head emerged out of the hydrothermal ceiling. It was

monstrous, as big as a truck, its jaws filled with huge teeth. I don’t remember much after that.

37

Steve Alten

They say I panicked, dropped every weight plate the sub had and rocketed toward the surface.

We ascended way too fast, and something went wrong with the compression system. The two

scientists died. I was rushed inside a recompression chamber and woke up in a hospital three

days later … never knew what happened.”

“And the mental ward?”

“A parting gift from Danielson. Actually, the rest did me good. But the dive left me with

a bit of an anxiety issue.”

“What makes you think this biologic was a Megalodon?”

“Mas, before this accident happened I didn’t know a Megalodon from a Mastodon. It was

only after … it was after I saw a psychiatrist that I started piecing things together.”

“But the monster … it never pursued you to the surface?”

“Apparently not. Like I said, I blacked out, but it could have overtaken us at any time. My

guess is it wasn’t interested in being in that cold layer, where the water temperature’s barely

above freezing.”

“Two men died on your watch. Knowing the kind of man you are, that karma must have

been hard to live with.”

“Still is. Not a day goes by I don’t think about it.” Jonas looked to the horizon. “The truth

is, it’s been so long, I’ve begun to doubt my own memories of the event.”

Masao sat back in his chair. “Jonas, I believe you saw something, but I don’t think it was

a monster. You know, D.J. tells me there are giant patches of white tubeworms located all

along the bottom. D.J. says these worms reflect the light so it appears like they are glowing.

You never did make it to the very bottom of the trench, did you?”

“No.”

“D.J. made it. That boy loves deep-sea exploration, says it’s like being in outer space. Jonas,

I think what you saw was a patch of tubeworms. I think the currents pushed them in and out

of your sight line, your submersible’s exterior light catching their glow. That’s why they seemed

to disappear. Remember, you were exhausted, staring into the darkness. The Navy worked you

too hard, three dives in eight days is not safe, a fourth is criminal. Were you falling asleep?”

“Like I had terminal narcolepsy.”

“Given the circumstances, what is the more likely event—that you were attacked by an

extinct species of shark or that you dreamt the attack and panicked when you awoke?”

Jonas sat in silence, tears clouding his vision.

Masao placed his hand on Jonas’s shoulder. “My friend, I need your help. And I think

maybe it’s time to face your fears. I want you to return to the Mariana Trench with us and

make the dive with D.J., but this time you’ll make it all the way to the bottom. You’ll see these

patches of giant tubeworms for yourself. You were once a great pilot, and I know in my heart

you still are. You can’t live in fear your whole life.”

“What about Terry? She wants to make the dive—”

“She’s not ready. Too headstrong. No, I need you. And you need to do this, so that you can

38

THE

get on with your life.”

Jonas nodded. “Okay … I’ll go back.”

“Good. And when all of this is over, you will come work with me at the Institute, yes?”

“We’ll see.” Jonas choked back a laugh. “Boy, your daughter is going to be pissed at me.”

Masao nodded. “She will be upset with us both. Let’s skip the home cooking; I think it best

we eat at a restaurant tonight.”

39

THE KIKU

THE AMERICAN AIRLINES jumbo jet soared 36,000 feet above the blue carpet of the Pacific

Ocean, five hours out of San Francisco.

Terry rose from her first-class seat and headed forward towards the plane’s restroom.

Alphonse DeMarco was seated in the row behind her next to Jonas Taylor.

The former naval submersible pilot had a briefcase-sized Abyss Glider-II flight simulator

on his lap, a dark visor over his eyes. The simulator’s dual joysticks allowed Jonas to practice

coordinating yaw and pitch with speed and stabilization while focusing on underwater images

appearing in his visor.

For a contraption he had labeled a “kid’s video game,” the experience turned out to be

quite intense.

Removing the head gear, he took a break to rest his eyes. There’d be plenty of time for

more practice. It was a twelve-hour flight across the Pacific to Guam, not counting a stopover

in Honolulu for refueling.

Terry’s attitude toward Jonas had gone from cold to ice. She was visibly hurt that her father

had ignored her qualifications to back up her brother, D.J., and felt Jonas had lied to her about

not being interested in piloting the sub into the Mariana Trench. She flatly refused to help

40

THE

train Jonas on the simulator.

Having been at it for three straight hours, Jonas opened his sleep pod to take a break.

Staring out the window at the night sky, he thought about his last conversation with Masao

Tanaka.

Despite seven years of self-analysis, it had never occurred to Jonas that he could have been

focused on a cluster of tubeworms. According to D.J. Tanaka, vast expanses of Riftia grew along

the bottom of the Challenger Deep. If true, then it was possible he had been staring at a worm

cluster through the swirling debris of minerals, fallen asleep, and dreamt the triangular head.

The thought made Jonas ill. Two men had died for his mistake, two families shattered. At

least the Megalodon defense had served to lessen his guilt. Coming to grips with this new

evidence which suggested he may have imagined the entire threat was not sitting well with his

psyche.

Jonas knew Masao was right; he had to face his fears and return to the trench. If a white

Megalodon tooth could be found, it would justify seven years of research. If not, so be it. One

way or the other, it was time to get on with his life.

Fifteen rows behind Jonas and DeMarco, David Adashek closed the hardback Extinct

Species of the Abyss by Jonas Taylor, Ph. D. He removed his bifocals, positioned his pillow

against the window, and fell asleep.

Western Pacific Ocean

The naval transport helicopter soared two hundred feet above the waves, its co-pilot

glancing over his shoulder at Jonas and DeMarco in the second seat. “She’s just up ahead.”

41

Steve Alten

“About time,” DeMarco said. He turned to wake Terry, who had been sleeping in the third

seat since they’d left the naval station in Guam.

Jonas trained his eyes on the horizon, a faint line separating the gray ocean from the gray

sky. He couldn’t see anything.

Maybe I should have slept. He was certainly tired enough. They’d been traveling for more

than fifteen hours.

Moments later he saw the ship, a flat speck quickly growing larger in the distance.

The deep-sea research vessel, Kiku, was two-hundred-and-seventy-four feet long with a

forty-four-foot beam and was outfitted with labs, machine shops, and accommodations to

support a dozen scientists and a crew of eighteen for extended voyages. The ship was also

equipped to launch submersibles, a reinforced-steel winch and A-frame towering over its stern

deck. Behind the winch was a massive spool containing more than eight miles of steel cable.

Approaching from the north, the helicopter hovered high over the Kiku’s helipad but did

not attempt to land.

DeMarco peered out of his window, then motioned to Terry.

An athletic man wearing a black and neon-green wetsuit was kite-boarding along the port

side of the ship. The wind was gusting at forty knots, the swells twenty feet high, generating

ideal conditions to achieve radical lifts.

Glancing overhead, the kite-boarder saw the hovering chopper. Executing a heel turn jibe,

he quickly reversed his direction, creating incredible tension on the lines. Feeling a gust of wind

take the kite, he edged his board as he headed into an incoming fifteen-foot swell, then

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released the built-up kinetic energy and soared over the top of the wave, becoming airborne.

As the helicopter passengers watched, the kite launched its rider eighty feet into the air.

Defying gravity, the daredevil whipped his body into a tight one-eighty, hovering high over the

Kiku’s bow. For the next twelve seconds he pirouetted into the wind, then, bleeding air from

his kite, he dropped onto the aft deck and skidded to a halt.

Terry beamed proudly at Jonas. “D.J.”

Twenty-four-year-old D.J. Tanaka was lean and tall like his father, his body taut with

muscles, his skin a deep Asian tan. He hugged his older sister as she stepped off the chopper,

ushering her to a quiet location away from the helicopter’s dying overhead rotors to talk.

Jonas grabbed his carry-on bag and joined them. With their black hair, dark eyes, high

cheekbones and identical smiles the siblings could almost pass as twins.

“D.J., this is Jonas Taylor. Don’t call him professor, it makes him feel old.”

D.J. shook Jonas’s hand. “My sister’s a pistol, huh?”

“A real delight.”

“So, I understand we’re going to be descending together into the Challenger Deep. Sure

you’re up for it?”

“I’ll be fine,” said Jonas, sensing D.J.’s competitive nature. “I would like to do a few

practice runs. Where are the subs?”

“Come on, I’ll show you.”

Jonas followed D.J. and Terry aft to where the two Abyss Gliders were lying horizontally,

secured to the deck in their dry mounts. The vessels were ten feet long by four feet in diameter

and resembled fat glass torpedoes with small mid-wings and a tail assembly.

Working on one of the undercarriages was a man in his late thirties, only his grease-stained

sky-blue jumpsuit visible.

D.J. slapped his hand on one of the sub’s clear plastic nose cones. “Lexan. The plastic’s so

strong, it’s used as bulletproof glass in presidential limousines. The entire escape pod’s made

of the stuff, rendering the craft neutrally buoyant. Technically, the chamber is one big escape

pod. If the Glider gets into trouble, simply pull the lever located in a metal gear box along your

right side and the interior chamber will separate from the heavier chassis. It’s like being in a

buoyant bubble. You’ll rise right to the top.”

The mechanic crawled out from beneath the sub’s chassis, wiping his hands on his pants.

“I’ll give the tour, kid. After all, I did redesign the damn things.”

Jonas’s face broke into a broad smile. “Mac! What the hell are you doing here?”

James “Mac” Mackreides turned to his friend. “I should be asking you the same question.

I called Vegas this morning; the line on you actually showing up was six-to-one.”

“How did you bet?”

43

Steve Alten

“You know me, always go with the underdog.”

The two men embraced.

Terry looked at her brother. “Did you know they knew each other?”

He shook his head. “Mac never said a word.”

Jonas stood back, taking in his friend. Mac’s Navy-regulation crew-cut had grown out into

a mop of dirty-blonde hair, his hawkish hazel eyes sporting a few more stress lines since their

shared three month stay together in the mental ward where they had met seven years ago. The

boyish twinkle was still present.

“You look good.” Jonas patted Mac’s stomach. “Glad to see you’re eating well.”

“That’s bought and paid for, pal.”

“Just like your women.”

“You misjudge me, Commander Taylor. I’m no longer delivering VIPs to tropical island

bordellos.”

“That’s because Dick Danielson shut you down.”

“Danielson didn’t do dick. Some hotshot Congressman decided to use his wife’s VISA card

to pay for services rendered. When the missus found out, she went on a rampage. Doesn’t

matter. I work for Masao now, keeping his ship and submersibles running and his bar replen-

ished with the finest kind of beer and shine.”

D.J. hesitated. “I was just about to explain about the advantages of having a neutrally-

buoyant sub.”

“Go for it.”

“When you construct a sphere out of titanium, you lose half your battery power just trying

to pilot the sub, not to mention your lack of speed and maneuverability.”

Mac looked at D.J. “At least explain to him how the mission will go.”

“Look beneath the belly of the sub,” D.J. instructed Jonas “There’s a retractable mechan-

ical arm with a claw. When we make our descent, you’ll take the lead. I’ll follow in my sub,

which will have a steel cable attached to my glider’s claw. The damaged UNIS has several eye

bolts located along its outer casing. Once you clear the debris away from the UNIS, I’ll attach

the cable and the Kiku’s winch will haul the unit back to the surface.”

“Doesn’t sound too bad.”

“It’s a walk in the park, but it’s still a two-man job,” said D.J. “I tried to attach the cable on

my first descent, but I couldn’t maintain the claw’s grip on the steel cable and clear the debris.

I finally tried letting go of the cable; the next thing I know the hydrothermal plume dragged

it two miles to the south.”

“Maybe you were just nervous,” Terry teased. “You told me it’s kind of scary down there.

Being cramped in a pod the size of a phone booth, knowing that you’re seven miles down,

surrounded by thousands of pounds of pressure. One mistake, one crack in the hull, and your

brains implode.” She glanced at Jonas, looking for a reaction.

“Ah, you’re just jealous,” said D.J., who turned to Jonas, his face full of animation. “Truth

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is, I loved it down there. What a rush, I can’t wait to go back. I thought bungee jumping and

kite surfing were cool, but this beats the hell out of them.”

Jonas stared at the young man, recognizing traits from his own youth. “You consider

yourself an adrenaline junkie?”

D.J. calmed himself. “Me? No, sir … I mean, yeah, I’m an adrenaline junkie, sure, but this

is different. The Challenger Deep … it’s like being the first person to explore another planet.

There are these huge black smokers everywhere, and the weirdest fish you ever saw. But why

am I telling you? You’ve been on dozens of trench dives before.”

Jonas tugged on one of the glider’s red vinyl flags emblazoned with the Tanaka logo. “I’ve

piloted more than my share of dives into deep-sea trenches, but I’ve never been to the bottom

of the Challenger Deep.”

“Then tomorrow morning we’ll pop your cherry.”

“What about my practice dive?”

“No practice dives.”

They turned as a large dark-skinned man in a red knit cap approached, accompanied by two

Filipino crew members.

“Jonas Taylor,” D.J. said, “Leon Barre, the Kiku’s captain.”

Jonas shook the French-Polynesian’s hand, his thick palm as padded as a catcher’s mitt.

“Welcome aboard,” he said, his baritone voice booming. Barre tipped his hat to Terry.

“Mademoiselle,” he said reverently.

DeMarco joined them, slapping the big man across his shoulder. “You’re putting on a little

weight, Leon?”

Leon’s face darkened. “The Thai woman, she fattens me like a pig.”

DeMarco laughed, turning to Jonas. “The captain’s wife’s a hell of a cook. We could all use

a little of that, Leon. We’re starving.”

“We eat in an hour, but no practice dives. Bad weather is two days out; I want to be back

in port before it hits.”

Jonas turned to Mac. “What about a quick surface dive?”

“Sorry, pal. The A-frame’s generator is being repaired; we need to save the backup unit’s

juice just in case we need it for tomorrow’s dive. But stick around and I’ll prep you as best I

can.”

Jonas waited until the two Tanaka siblings followed DeMarco and the captain into the

ship’s infrastructure. “Mac, you haven’t been speaking to Masao or anyone else about our little

vacation in the crazy bin?”

“No.”

“But you knew I was coming.”

“I knew Masao was going to offer you the dive; I honestly didn’t think you’d take the gig

… not with Frank Heller on board.”

Jonas felt the breath squeeze out of his chest. “Heller’s part of this expedition?”

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Steve Alten

“Masao never told you?”

“You think I’d be here if he did?”

“Stay calm. Heller’s Masao’s physician, his presence has no bearing on your dive this time

around.”

“Where is he?”

“Probably in sick bay. That’s on C-Deck.”

Jonas turned and walked away.

46

FRANK HELLER

JONAS ENTERED THE SHIP’S infrastructure and ascended one flight of stairs to C-Deck.

Following signs posted on a corridor wall, he located sick bay and entered without knocking.

A gaunt man in his early fifties with short gray hair and heavy, black-framed glasses was

bent over a computer keyboard. He glanced up at Jonas, his moist blue-gray eyes swollen

behind the thick lenses, then turned back to his monitor. “Another fishing expedition, Taylor?”

Jonas paused a moment before he answered. “That’s not why I’m here, Frank.”

“Why are you here?”

“Masao asked for my help.”

“The Japanese have no sense of irony.”

“Like it or not, we’re going to have to work together. The only way to find out what’s going

on down there is to haul up the damaged UNIS. D.J. can’t do it alone—”

“I know that!” Heller rose quickly and crossed the room to refill his coffee cup. “What I

don’t understand is why you should be the one to go with him.”

“Because nobody else has been down there in the last thirty years.”

“Oh yes they have,” Heller said bitterly. “Only they died making the trip.”

Jonas broke eye contact. “Look, there hasn’t been a day that’s gone by in the last seven

years that I haven’t thought about the Sea Cliff. To be honest, I’m still not sure what really

happened. All I know is that I believed I saw something rise up from the bottom to attack our

sub, and I reacted.”

“Reacted? You panicked like it was your first day at boot camp.” Heller moved to Jonas,

standing nose to nose. His eyes burned with hatred. “Maybe your little confession makes every-

thing all right in your book, but it changes nothing with me. You were daydreaming, Taylor. You

hallucinated, and instead of reasoning, you panicked. You killed two of our team. Mike Shaffer

was my friend; I’m godfather to his kid. Shaffer’s family lives with your mistake every day.”

“And what about your contribution to the accident?” Jonas yelled back. “You were the

physician of record. You assured Danielson that I was medically fit to make a fourth dive,

despite the fact that I had vertigo and was suffering from exhaustion. Four descents in nine

days! Do you think that decision may have had anything to do with my ability to function?”

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Steve Alten

“You were a naval commander. You’re supposed to be a cut above the rest. Ultimately, it

was your decision whether you piloted the sub or your backup.”

“He wasn’t ready. You and Danielson knew it, which was why the two of you set me up to

be the fall guy … just to cover your own asses.”

“What is it you want from me, Taylor? I can’t absolve you of your actions any more than

I can render an excuse for my own. Danielson was my commanding officer, but he was being

pressured by the Pentagon. Did you want him to disobey a direct order because his lead pilot

was tired? The Navy’s not interested in hearing excuses, they want results.”

“And if you could turn back the clock to that morning, what would you do?”

“I don’t know. The truth is, you were a damn good pilot—maybe that influenced my

decision to let you go as well. But let’s just make sure that the reason you’re making this dive

with Tanaka’s kid is to assist him and not to go off looking for some tooth.”

Jonas headed for the door, then turned to face Heller. “I know my responsibilities, Frank.

I hope you remember yours.”

An hour later, having showered and changed, Jonas entered the galley where a dozen

crewmen were noisily feasting on fried chicken and potatoes. He made himself a plate and

grabbed a bottled water from a cooler.

Mac signaled him over to his table.

He sat down, listening to D.J., who was involved in a heated debate with DeMarco and

Captain Barre.

Heller’s absence was conspicuous.

“Doc!” D.J. sprayed half his mouthful of chicken out with the word. “You’re just in time.

There’s a rumor going around the ship that you spent three months in a looney bin after you

blamed a submersible accident on one of those prehistoric sharks you wrote about. Is that

true?”

The chamber fell quiet.

Jonas no longer felt hungry.

Mac flicked a potato at D.J. with his fork.

“Dude … really?”

“Jonas and I met at that facility seven years ago. What you call a looney bin was actually

a clinic that cared for disabled vets. So be careful; as a fellow lunatic-turned-submersible

mechanic, your accusation may cause me to accidentally forget to charge your emergency

batteries.”

D.J. smiled, but it was forced.

“We have a right to ask, Mac,” Terry interjected. “One of the guests at Jonas’s lecture

claimed two people died as a result of your friend’s actions. I spoke to Frank Heller; he

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wouldn’t come out and say exactly what happened, but he did tell me Jonas received a

dishonorable discharge from the Navy following the incident.”

D.J. looked Jonas squarely in the eye. “Doc?”

All eyes were on Jonas, who pushed his tray away. “It’s true. Only Frank left out a few

things … like I was exhausted from having completed three deep dives prior to the fourth, all

amassed within a nine day period. As far as tomorrow’s dive is concerned, I made a

commitment to your father to complete the mission and I intend on doing so. And for the

record, I’ve piloted more submersibles on deep-sea missions than you’ve had birthdays, D.J.

Now, if you’ll excuse me,” Jonas stood up to leave, “I think I’ve lost my appetite.”

D.J. grabbed his arm. “No, wait, Doc, come on now. Tell me about this shark. I really want

to know. After all, how will I recognize it if we happen to run into one tomorrow?”

“You’ll know right away,” Terry said. “It’ll be the one with the missing tooth.”

Laughter cascaded around them.

Jonas sat back down. “Okay, kid, you really want to know about these monsters, I’ll tell you.

The first thing you have to realize about sharks is that they’ve been around a lot longer than

us, about four hundred million years. Our ancestors only fell from the trees two million years

ago. And of all the species of sharks ever to have evolved, Megalodon was the undisputed king.

We’re not just talking about a shark; we’re talking about a formidable killing machine, the apex

predator of all time—a sixty-foot, forty-ton version of a great white shark. The Meg wasn’t just

big, it was endowed with senses that could track prey from miles away. It could smell and taste

you, it could feel your heart beating and sense the electrical impulses generated by your moving

muscles. Blood or urine in the water? You might as well have lit up a flare. And if it ever got

close enough to see you, then you were already dead.”

Leon Barre shook his head. “How do you know so much about a dead fish nobody’s ever

seen?”

The room quickly quieted, awaiting Jonas’s response.

“For one thing, we have their fossilized serrated teeth. An inch of tooth equates to about

ten feet of shark. The biggest teeth we’ve found were just over seven inches in length, so do the

math. The bottom teeth were narrow, used for gripping their prey while the uppers were

massive, designed to puncture whale bone and saw through muscle and sinew.”

“I want to know more about these senses,” said D.J., now truly curious.

Jonas gathered his thoughts. “All right. Just like its modern-day cousin, Carcharodon

megalodon possessed eight sensory organs that allowed it to search, detect, identify, and stalk

its prey. Let’s start with the ampullae of Lorenzini. These jelly-filled capsules located beneath

the snout could detect the faint electrical field of another animal’s beating heart or moving

muscles from many miles away. That means if the Megalodon was circling our ship, it could still

detect a whale calf in distress off the shoreline of Guam.

“Almost as amazing as the ampullae of Lorenzini was the Megalodon’s sense of smell.

Unlike man, the creature possessed directional nostrils which not only could detect one part

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Steve Alten

of blood or sweat or urine in a billion parts of water, but could also determine the exact

location of the scent. That’s why you see great whites swimming with a side-to-side motion of

their heads. They’re actually smelling the water in different directions. And a full-grown adult

Megalodon’s nostrils … they were probably the size of a cantaloupe.

“Now we come to the monster’s skin, a sensory organ and weapon combined in one.

Running along either side of the Meg’s flank was its lateral line, a canal that contained sensory

cells called neuromasts. These neuromasts were able to detect the slightest vibrations in water,

even the flutter of another fish’s heartbeat. The skin itself was made up of denticles, which

were essentially layered scales, sharp as scalpels. Rub your hand against the grain and your

flesh would be sliced to ribbons.”

Al DeMarco stood up. “You’ll have to excuse me. I’ve got work to do.”

“Ah, come on, Al,” said D.J. lightheartedly. “There’s no school tomorrow. We’ll let you stay

up late.”

DeMarco gave D.J. a stern look. “Tomorrow happens to be a big day for all of us, especially

you and Mr. Shark Tales here. I suggest you get some rest.”

“Al’s right, D.J.” agreed Jonas. “Besides, I’ve already mentioned the best parts.”

“One thing you didn’t mention, Taylor, is how these sharks of yours could exist in depths

where the water pressure reached 16,000 pounds per square inch.”

“Water pressure effects mammals and subs because they both have air cavities. Sharks,

being fish have no air cavities to squeeze. Megalodon also possessed an enormous liver that

probably constituted one-fourth of its entire weight. Besides serving the creature’s normal

hepatic functions and storing fatty energy reserves, the liver would have allowed the

Megalodon to adjust to any changes in water pressure, even at depths as great as those in the

Challenger Deep.”

“All right, professor,” said DeMarco, feeling baited, “let’s assume, just for shits and giggles,

that these Megalodon sharks do exist in the trench. Why haven’t they surfaced? There’s got

to be a lot more food up here than down there.”

“Fleas in a jar.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Terry asked.

“If you place fleas in a jar without the lid, they’ll all jump out. Leave the lid on a week, then

remove it and the fleas will still remain inside. The reason is conditioning. The hydrothermal

plume insulates the warm bottom layer from six miles of freezing-cold water. Megalodons that

survived in the Mariana Trench were conditioned over eons to remain in the warm

depths—there’d be no impetus to surface.”

“Food’s an impetus,” said DeMarco, the cynicism rising in his voice. “What food source

would be available in the Mariana Trench that could sustain a colony of predators the size of

a sixty-foot great white?”

“Giant cuttlefish, squid—who knows what else might be down there. The lower oxygen

content in the trench no doubt slows the creatures’ metabolism while decreasing their

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appetites. Being territorial predators, the Megs would probably thin out their numbers by

devouring any weaker members of their own species. Every habitat has its food chain; the

Challenger Deep is no exception.”

“What nonsense.”

Heads turned as Frank Heller entered the galley. “Don’t listen to him, D.J. Taylor’s sole

reason for becoming an academic was to justify his actions seven years ago in the Challenger

Deep. I made the mistake of certifying him as fit to dive. I won’t make that same mistake

again.”

Jonas felt his pulse jump. “What are you saying, Frank?”

“I’m saying you’re off the dive. As Masao’s chief medical officer, I’m declaring you mentally

unfit. Terry will accompany her brother into the trench.”

“Yes!” Terry hugged D.J.

Jonas glanced at Mac. Humiliated, he exited the galley and headed out on deck.

51

DESCENT

JONAS AWOKE SOMETIME BEFORE DAWN. His cabin was pitch-black, and for a moment

he didn’t know where he was.

The second series of knocks had him fumbling for the light switch. Dressed in a Navy blue

and white Penn State sweat suit, he made his way to the stateroom door and unlocked it.

Mac was standing in the corridor, holding a black and red neoprene body suit and matching

footwear. “Masao’s en route from Tokyo. He just reamed out Frank on the radio. Terry’s

benched, you’re back in the game.”

He handed Jonas the garment. “This is a bio-suit, it allows us to monitor your vitals during

the dive. Get dressed, grab some breakfast, then do whatever you deep-sea divers do to purge

your bowels, you launch in ninety minutes.”

Jonas closed the door, his heart racing.

Damn …

The dawn sky was a fierce tapestry of gray, gusting with thunderclouds that blew whitecaps

across the roiling sea.

A forty-knot wind assaulted Jonas as he stepped out onto the main deck in his bio-suit and

rubber boots. He had forced down a light breakfast of scrambled eggs and toast, needing to put

something in his stomach before popping two of his yellow pills for the descent. In his left

shoulder pouch were four more tablets. Despite the medication, he still felt anxious.

Mac’s launch team was busy attaching canvas harnesses to each of the Abyss Gliders. D.J.’s

sub would be hoisted into the sea first, the end of the steel cable clipped to the folded

mechanical arm secured beneath the sub’s undercarriage. The cocky young pilot was huddling

with his older sister, who was wearing a wetsuit.

Seeing Jonas, she approached the submersible pilot. “You can still back out.”

“Give it a rest.”

“Why are you really doing this? Is it ego?”

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THE

“It’s something I just have to do. A piece of me died down there, maybe this is the only way

to make myself whole again.”

“And did you pack your little yellow pills, Dr. Feel Good?”

She grabbed his arm as he tried to walk away. “D.J.’s my brother, Jonas. When our mother

died, I practically raised him. So if you screw up down there … if anything happens to him,

don’t bother surfacing.”

Without waiting for a reply she returned to D.J. They talked for a minute, then she hugged

him and joined three other divers who were pulling on their scuba gear.

Mac stood by Jonas. “You do have a way with the women. Speaking of which, how are things

going with that wife of yours … you know, the one who refused to visit you in the mental ward?”

“She’s screwing my old college roommate.”

“Ouch.”

“Any other painful subjects you wish to broach before I pilot this glass coffin seven miles

beneath the Pacific?”

“Still listen to my boy, Tom Jones?” Mac held up a Best of Tom Jones CD.

“The Abyss Glider has a CD player?”

“No, but there’s one in the command center linked to your radio.”

The two men watched as D.J. crawled head first through the rear hatch of his glider.

Moments later, the big A-frame powered up, lifting the torpedo-shaped vessel off the deck,

over the stern rail, and into the sea, the winch feeding out steel cable.

Alphonse DeMarco’s booming voice faltered in the wind. “Let’s go, Taylor, we’re burning

daylight.”

Mac muttered, “As if you’ll need it where you’re going.”

Jonas punched knuckles with his friend before ducking down on all fours to climb through

the open rear hatch of his submersible, straining his back as he sealed the Lexan pod behind him.

The interior was tight but well-cushioned, the body hammock smelling of new leather.

Jonas realized the sub was new, and the sudden thought of taking an untested vessel seven

miles below the surface only added to his trepidation.

Securing himself in the hammock, he adjusted the padded elbow rests which were situated

in front of and below his chest. Placing the headphones over his ears, he reached for the two

joysticks, his left hand controlling the sub’s thruster, the device in his right hand used to steer.

He did a quick inventory of the storage areas, finding snacks, bottled water, and a urine bottle

in one, a medical kit, a knife, and a pony bottle of air attached to a face mask in the other. In

a Velcro pouch he discovered a pair of night vision goggles.

Small LCD computer screens mounted on a low forward rise provided him with sonar,

radio, battery levels, and life-support readouts. As he ran through a pre-launch check list the

sub suddenly lifted away from the deck, sending his equilibrium spinning.

Jonas’s pulse raced as the big winch hoisted the Abyss Glider beyond the Kiku’s rail,

offering him a birds’ eye view of the harsh Pacific. The A-frame rotated forward, lowering him

53

Steve Alten

to a team of divers waiting in the fifteen-foot swells—Terry among them. For several nauseat-

ing minutes he held on as the ocean lifted and dropped the buoyant submersible unmercifully

while the team of frogmen detached the A-frame’s harness. Finally, one of the divers knocked

on the Lexan nose cone, giving the all-clear sign … followed by the middle finger.

“Love you, too, Terry.” Jonas started the engine, pressed forward on the throttle, then

adjusted the mid-wings, aiming his vessel underwater.

The glider responded at once, nose diving beneath the waves. The seasickness immediately

subsided, yielding to smooth sailing. Jonas noticed the sub felt much heavier, perhaps even

sluggish compared with the lighter weight surface model he had test-piloted nine years ago.

Still, the Abyss Glider was a Corvette compared to the tank-like design of the Sea Cliff.

Jonas followed the thick steel cable down another thirty feet before spotting D.J.’s sub. The

radio crackled, the young pilot’s voice filtering through.

“Age before beauty, Professor. You take the lead, I’m right behind you.”

Walk in the park …

Jonas moved the starboard joystick forward, sending his ten-foot glider into a steep forty-

five-degree descent.

D.J. followed him down, the steel recovery cable in tow, the two subs looping downward

in a slow spiraling pattern.

Within minutes the blue of the Pacific faded to a deep shade of purple, followed by pitch

blackness. Jonas checked his depth gauge: a mere 1,250 feet. He searched a pad of toggle

switches on his right, located the exterior lights, and flicked them on.

A column of light illuminated a patch of sea below, scattering a school of fish. Descending

into nothingness was disorienting, and Jonas wondered if he’d be better off just focusing on his

LCD readout. He checked his depth gauge again: 2,352 feet.

Relax and breathe. This is a marathon, not a sprint, J.T. You’ve got a long way to go.

The UNIS command center was located in the Kiku’s bridge, the horseshoe-shaped bank

of monitors and sonar arrays uploading data from the two Abyss Gliders. Alphonse DeMarco

was tracking the descent; Mac keeping vigil over the subs’ propulsion and life support systems.

Frank Heller sat facing two computer screens linked to the pilots’ bio-suits. Vital signs were

displayed in real time, with heart rate, blood pressure, body temperature, and breathing

patterns falling into either a green, yellow, or red zone.

D. J. Tanaka’s readings were all well within the green zone.

Jonas Taylor’s were fluctuating within the yellow.

Heller looked up as Terry entered the bridge. Masao’s daughter was dressed in a sweat suit,

her hair still wet from the releasing the gliders.

“How are they doing, Frank?”

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“Your brother’s as calm as a frozen lake. Taylor … not so good. If his vitals go red, I’m

scrubbing the mission. If your father doesn’t like it then he can fire me.”

Terry smiled, patting him on the shoulder.

Jonas popped a yellow pill into his mouth, washing it down with a swig of bottled water.

DeMarco’s voice rattled his ear drums. “Jonas, I need you to switch off your exterior light,

you’re wasting battery power. Nothing to see down there anyway.”

Jonas gritted his teeth as he flipped back the toggle switch, casting his existence into

darkness, save for the soft orange glow from his forward console. He took a deep breath, trying

to focus on the nothingness before him.

In the distance he saw a flash of light, followed by a dozen more. Luminescent sparks

twinkled all around him, blinking in and out of existence, the green, blue, and red flashbulbs

of color disorienting to look at.

Jonas had entered the ocean’s mid-water region, a habitat enshrouded in perpetual

darkness. Known as the twilight zone, the creatures inhabiting this vast domain had adapted

by evolving their own bioluminescent light.

A scarlet vampire squid was caught surfing in his bow-wake. Turning itself inside-out, it cast

a false glowing turquoise eye upon the sub, attempting to scare it off. When this tactic failed,

it expelled a cloud of bioluminescent mucus, executing a magician’s vanishing getaway.

55

Steve Alten

Remembering the night vision goggles, he pulled them out of their pouch and placed them

on—instantly transforming the sea into an olive-green world. A thousand shadows became

bulbous eyes and jaws that unhinged, and bizarre fish with bioluminescent bulbs that dangled

before their open mouths like bait. They were everywhere—viperfish and gulper eels, fang-

tooths and dragonfish and anglerfish with teeth that would put a piranha to shame, the under-

water universe twinkling with ten thousand points of light.

Viperfish

Fangtooth

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THE

Dragonfish

The deeper he descended, the more curious the fish became. Schools of hatchetfish flew

past his nose cone, staring at him with freakish eyes, their narrow bodies blinking blue by

means of light-producing photophores. The glider descended past harvests of bioluminescent

jellyfish, their transparent bodies filtering red in his sub’s emergency keel light.

Hatchetfish

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Steve Alten

“Abyssopelagic animals,” Jonas whispered to himself, reciting the technical name for these

unique groups of fish, squid, and prawns. He watched as a four-foot gulper eel hovered in front

of him, surfing on the nose cone’s wake. Deciding to attack the larger sub, the eel spun around

and opened its mouth, hyperextending and unhinging its jaws, revealing vicious rows of needle-

sharp teeth. Jonas tapped the acrylic and the eel darted away.

Gulper Eel

58

THE

To his left, a deep-sea anglerfish circled, an eerie light appearing over its mouth. The

species possessed a rod fin that lit up like a lightning bug’s tail. Small fish would mistake the

light for food and swim straight toward it, right into the angler’s wide-open mouth.

Anglerfish

Even in the cold, perpetual darkness of the sea, nature had found a way to adapt.

Jonas hadn’t noticed the cold creeping in on him. He glanced at the sub’s external

temperature gauge: Forty-two degrees. He adjusted the thermostat to heat the interior capsule.

The blast of Guns N’ Roses’ Welcome to the Jungle caused Jonas to nearly jump out of his

harness. Tearing the headphones from his ears didn’t help, the pounding heavy metal was

turned up way too loud to be ignored.

The wave of panic happened without warning. It was a desperate, empty, frightening

feeling—a feeling of being trapped … of being squeezed beneath six thousand feet of water

in a crawl space barely wider than a coffin.

Sweat poured from Jonas’s body. His breathing became erratic, and he found himself

hyperventilating. He fumbled for another pill, only to drop it beneath the console.

“He’s losing it,” Frank Heller announced, pointing to Jonas Taylor’s vital signs, all readings

deep inside the red zone.

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Steve Alten

Mac rolled his chair away from his console to look at Frank’s monitor. “What the hell

happened?”

DeMarco grabbed the radio. “Taylor, what’s wrong? Taylor, answer!”

Mac glanced at Terry, who was watching from behind the horseshoe, her back to a wall

panel stacked with communications equipment. That’s when he noticed the volume level lights

jumping on one of the CD players.

Jonas couldn’t breathe. His heart pounded so hard his chest hurt, his limbs shaking so badly

he could no longer pilot the sub.

Welcome to the jungle, we take it day by day. If you want it you’re going to bleed, but it’s the

price you pay …

The music abruptly stopped, his ears still buzzing.

A moment of terror passed during the silence that followed, and then another song played

at half the volume over the headphones …

Pussycat, Pussycat, I’ve got flowers and lots of hours to spend with you.

So go and powder … your cute little pussycat nose—

Jonas smiled. The tightness in his chest disappeared.

What’s new pussycat? Whoa whoa …

What’s new pussycat? Whoa a-whoa whoa.

Retrieving the discarded headphones, he placed them back over his ears to listen to the

Tom Jones romp.

Frank Heller watched, dumbfounded, as Jonas’s vital signs returned to the green zone.

“Son of a bitch …”

Terry glanced back at Mac, who was standing next to the CD player, holding the Guns N’

Roses CD in one hand, wagging his index finger at her with the other.

Eighteen thousand feet …

Jonas had settled into a nice groove when D.J. interrupted his music over the ship-to-ship

frequency. “Doc, how are you holding up?”

“No problems to speak of. How are you doing?”

“Okay, I guess. This damn cable’s all tangled around the mechanical arm. Kind of like my

telephone cord gets.”

60

THE

Jonas cut his speed, allowing D.J.’s glider to come up along his starboard side. Flipping on

his exterior lights he could see the cable was badly twisted into tight loops beneath his chassis.

“D.J., if it’s a problem, we should head back—”

“I’ve got it under control. When we get to the bottom, I’ll flip the arm around a few dozen

times and ease some of the tension.”

Jonas called up to DeMarco. “D.J.’s cable is twisting around the mechanical arm. Can you

do anything topside to relieve some of the pressure?”

“Negative. D.J.’s got the problem under control. We’ll monitor him. You concentrate on

what you’re doing. DeMarco out.”

Jonas checked his depth gauge: 19,266 feet. They had been descending now for forty

minutes, and were still only a little more than halfway to the bottom. He rubbed his eyes and

then attempted to stretch his lower back within the tight leather hammock.

The Lexan pod creaked. The water pressure surrounding him was 9,117 pounds per square

inch. Jonas felt the telltale signs of claustrophobia creeping in again, his skin tingling, his face

flushing.

The feeling reminded the former Penn State All-Big-Ten conference tight end of the time

he had to submit to ninety minutes’ worth of MRIs after suffering a concussion during his

junior year in a game against Ohio State University. The massive machine had been situated

only inches above his head like a sword of Damocles waiting to crush his skull.

Only the soft glow from the Abyss Glider’s control panel gave him a sense of direction,

keeping him sane.

His eyes moved over the interior of the capsule, damp with condensation.

Why am I here?

Long minutes passed. The depth gauge numbers continued to mount: 23,850 … 28,400 …

30,560 … 31,200 … He stared out into the blackness, his hands trembling from nerves and

fatigue. 33,120 … 34,000 …

Jonas felt a slight trace of vertigo, which he hoped had more to do with the rich oxygen

mixture in the submersible than with his medicine. His eyes moved from the inky water to the

control panel readouts. The outside ocean temperature was a frigid thirty-six degrees.

D.J.’s voice shattered his thoughts. “Okay, Doc, turn on your exterior light, you should be

able to see the hydrothermal plume.”

Jonas complied, the light cannon piercing the darkness, illuminating a steaming, swirling,

muddy layer of soot sixty feet below.

“Doc, here’s where it gets a bit rough. Best way to get through is to accelerate into a sixty-

degree angle and don’t stop until you’ve passed on through to the Land of Oz.”

Jonas accelerated into the maelstrom, his heart racing as the glider shook, the sweeping

black current slamming him sideways in his harness as gravel rained upon his tiny craft. Fear

washed over him as he prayed to his maker, begging for the ship’s acrylic seals to maintain their

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Steve Alten

integrity beneath the weight of the ocean’s depths. He recalled the words of wisdom offered

by U.S. Navy Lt. Donald Walsh during a lecture when he initially began training as a

submersible pilot. The first man ever to venture into the Mariana Trench had a rather simple

philosophy regarding the dangers of the depths—“if you’re afraid it’s a good sign, it means

you’re still alive.”

And then he was through, his craft flying through the crystal-clear bottom waters as if he

had entered the eye of a hurricane.

Jonas adjusted his night vision glasses, awestruck by the view. Below was a petrified forest

of black smokers—towering chimneys of hardened mineral deposits, their open vents spewing

thick brownish black clouds of superheated mineralized water into the abyss. As he drew closer

to the sea floor he could make out acres and acres of tubeworms, their stalks ghostly white,

their tips blood red in his sub’s heavenly light. There were thousands of giant albino clams lying

around the vents, along with countless crustaceans, albino lobsters and crabs, all glowing in the

darkness of the abyss, all completely blind.

Life. The amount and variety within the trenches had shocked scientists, who had incor-

rectly theorized that no life form could exist on the planet without sunlight. Jonas felt awed at

being in the Challenger Deep. In the most desolate location on the planet, nature had found a

way to allow life to not only exist, but to thrive.

A wave of anxiety washed over him with the thought.

What else is down here?

62

CHALLENGER DEEP

D.J.’S VOICE SNAPPED JONAS BACK to the reality of their mission. “Okay, Doc, I’m

through. My glider has a tracking device that’ll guide me to the UNIS, so follow me. It’s gonna

get very hot as we pass above those black smokers, so be careful. You catch a geyser of

superheated water full on and it could melt the seals on your sub’s chassis.”

“Thanks for the warning.” Jonas checked his digital temperature readout: seventy-one

degrees Fahrenheit and still climbing as they descended toward the bottom. How hot could it

get? How much could the Abyss Glider handle?

He followed D.J.’s submersible as it wove its way through the blackness, the trailing steel

cable occasionally slapping against his nose cone. Water billowed up at them from below, heavy

in sulfur, copper, iron, and other minerals that seeped out of the seabed’s cracks.

Jonas maneuvered his sub between two of the smoking towers, his temperature gauge

momentarily rocketed past 230 degrees. He veered hard to port, the maneuver causing him to

graze his left wing against the side of another black smoker.

He chastised his carelessness, his mind teetering on the border of fear and panic. Locate

the damaged UNIS, help secure the tow line, and get the hell out of Dodge.

A chill ran down his spine as he recalled one of the dead scientists using the same phrase

on their last dive together.

The glider passed over massive clusters of tubeworms flowing like clumps of spaghetti in

the warm currents. Twelve feet long, five inches thick, the Riftia were being fed on by eelpouts

and other small fish.

D.J.’s sub slowed up ahead. Jonas backed off, careful to maintain a safe distance from the

trailing cable.

“We’re almost there, Doc. Steady on course one-five-zero.”

Jonas followed D.J.’s sub along the 200-million-year-old sea floor, maneuvering just above

a winding highway-sized gully.

“Doc, I’m getting hit by strong currents, better hold on.” As if on cue, Jonas felt his vessel’s

aft end wagging like a dog’s tail. The submersible pitched, its engine fighting to maintain

course and speed.

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Steve Alten

“There it is.” D.J. announced.

The shell of the crushed UNIS was buried beneath a pile of mineral debris from the sur-

rounding hydrothermal vents. D.J. positioned his sub above the remains, shining his spotlight

over it like a street lamp. “It’s all yours, Doc.”

Jonas moved closer to the UNIS, aiming his own spotlight at the robot’s hull as he searched

the area for a glimpse of something white. He circled the pile of debris—and there it was!

“D.J., I can’t believe it, I located that tooth!” Jonas could barely contain his excitement. He

extended his sub’s mechanical arm, aiming the claw above the six-and-a-half-inch triangular

object, carefully lifting it from the pile of minerals.

Bringing it into his beacon of light, Jonas gazed at the precious object he had traveled seven

miles beneath the Pacific Ocean to obtain.

D.J. laughed. “Doc, that’s not a tooth, it’s an arm from a dead albino starfish.”

Terry, Frank Heller, and Alphonse DeMarco filled his headphones with laughter.

Jonas could feel his blood pressure rising. For a long moment, he seriously considered

ramming his submersible into the nearest black smoker.

“I’m sorry for laughing, man,” said D.J., “but you gotta admit, that was pretty funny. The

thought of a killer starfish crushing the UNIS—”

“Enough already.”

“Okay, okay. Hey, wanna laugh at my stupidity? Take a look at my sub’s mechanical arm.”

Jonas looked over at D.J.’s sub. The steel cable had wound in a dozen chaotic loops around

the six-foot mechanical limb, so much so that the arm was barely visible. “D.J., that’s not funny.

64

THE

You’ve got a lot of untangling to do before you can free yourself to attach the line.”

“I can handle it. You work on clearing that debris.”

Jonas lowered his sub’s mechanical arm, forcing himself to focus on the task at hand. He

felt his blood boiling, beads of sweat dripping down his sides. Within minutes, he had managed

to clear a third of the debris from the UNIS, exposing several intact eye bolts.

“Nice job, Doc.” D.J. was slowly revolving the mechanical arm in tight counterclockwise

circles. Gradually, the steel cable began freeing itself from around the extended appendage.

“You need some help?” asked Jonas.

“No, I’m fine. Stand by.”

Jonas hovered the Abyss Glider twenty feet off the bottom. Masao had been right, all of

them had. He had hallucinated, allowed his imagination to wander, violating a major rule of

deep-sea exploration. One mistake, one simple loss of focus, had cost the lives of his crew and

his reputation as a submersible pilot.

What was left for him now?

He thought about Maggie. She’ll want a divorce, and who could blame her? Jonas was an

embarrassment. She had turned to Bud Harris, his own friend, for love and support while Jonas

had built his new career on a lie. His triumphant return to the Challenger Deep had merely

served as a wake-up call. He had wasted seven years of his life chasing an aberration,

destroying his marriage in the process.

A starfish, for Christ’s sake …

Blip.

The sound caught him off-guard. Jonas located his sonar. A red dot had appeared on the

abyssal terrain, the source of the disturbance approaching from the west.

Blip.

Blip, blip, blip …

Jonas felt his heart racing. Whatever it was, it was big.

“D.J., check your sonar.”

“My sonar? Whoa … what the hell is that?”

“DeMarco?”

The engineer had stopped laughing. “We see it too. Has D.J. attached the cable yet?”

Jonas looked up, the cable nearly free from the other sub’s mechanical arm. “Not yet. How

big would you estimate this object to be?”

“Jonas, relax,” Terry interjected. “We know what you’re thinking. Heller says sonar’s

merely detecting a school of fish.”

“Heller’s a doctor, and not a very good one. Whatever this is, it’s homing in on our

location.”

Jonas took several deep breaths, forcing himself to think. Homing in … it is homing in …

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Steve Alten

on our vibrations.

“D.J., stop twisting.”

“Jonas, I’m nearly—”

“Shut down everything, all systems.”

“You’re crazy. It’s just a school of fish.”

“Maybe it is. But if it’s not, it’ll be homing in on the vibrations and electrical impulses from

our subs. Kill your power now, dammit.”

Jonas powered off his sub, then flicked off his exterior lights.

D.J.’s heart raced. He stopped twisting the mechanical arm. “Al, Jonas just shut down.

What should I do?”

“Taylor’s crazy. Attach the cable and get the hell out of there.”

“D.J. …” The words caught in his throat, “we have company.”

D.J. stared into the darkness with his night vision goggles. Something was out there, moving

back and forth along the periphery like a caged tiger.

Jonas drew a quick breath as D.J.’s sub went dark. He kept one hand close to the power

switch, the other by his exterior light, both extremities shaking.

In the silent depths half a football field away he saw the predator.

There was no doubt. He could see the conical snout, the thick triangular head, the crescent-

moon tail. He estimated the Megalodon to be forty-five feet long and 40,000 pounds. Pure

white … an albino ghost, just like the giant clams, just like the tubeworms.

From its lean torso, Jonas guessed the shark was a male.

D.J.’s voice whispered across the radio. “Okay, Doc, I swear to you, I’m a believer. So

what’s your plan?”

“Stay calm. It’s sizing us up. It’s not sure we’re edible. No movements, we have to be careful

not to trigger a response.”

“Taylor, report.” Heller’s voice ripped through the capsule.

“Frank, shut up,” whispered Jonas. “We’re being watched.”

“D.J.?” Terry’s voice whispered over the radio.

D.J. didn’t respond. He was mesmerized by the frightening creature before him, paralyzed

with fear.

Jonas knew they had only one chance; somehow they had to make it past the hydrothermal

plume and back into the frigid open waters. The Meg wouldn’t follow; at least he prayed it

wouldn’t.

It was getting warm. The subs were drifting, the bottom currents pushing them toward a

patch of vents. Dripping with sweat, Jonas watched as the monster broke off from its holding

pattern to investigate.

66

THE

“Doc?”

“Let it come closer. When I say, blast it with your exterior lights, then head for the plume.”

“Okay, good.”

Jonas watched the creature move closer, its massive head moving from side to side, its

mouth agape—

“Now!”

Jonas and D.J. ignited their exterior lights, blasting 7,500 watts into the creature’s sensitive

nocturnal eyes.

The male whipped its head sideways, retreating back into the darkness.

The concussion wave from the Meg’s swishing caudal fin struck a second later.

D.J.’s glider twisted and spun, the steel cable going taut, preventing the minisub from

drifting farther. Spinning around in a tight one-eighty, the pilot accelerated into a near-vertical

ascent.

Untethered, Jonas’s glider was swept backwards into the side of a three-story-high black

smoker, the impact crushing the sub’s propeller shaft and knocking its pilot woozy.

Jonas felt warm liquid ooze down his forehead seconds before he slipped into unconscious-

ness.

67

THE FEMALE

D.J. TANAKA ACCELERATED HIS Abyss Glider into a steep seventy-degree climb. He

ignored the constant barrage of voices begging him to respond, choosing instead to focus on

the race at hand. Blood pounded in his ears, but his hands were steady. He knew the stakes

were high—life and death. The adrenaline junkie grinned.

He stole a quick glance over his left shoulder. The albino monster had banked sharply away

from the sea floor and was now pursuing him like a guided missile. D.J. estimated he had a

two-hundred-foot lead, the frigid waters still a good two to three thousand feet away.

It was going to be close.

68

THE

His sonar beeped louder.

The depth gauge rose faster.

Sweat poured from his angular face. “Come on baby, climb!”

He saw the hydrothermal plume, the ceiling of soot swirling overhead like a maelstrom. The

small glider burst through the minerals and debris, the current whipping him sideways as if he

were caught by a tornado—and then he burst free into the frigid open waters.

D.J. looked back over his shoulder. The Megalodon was nowhere in sight. He checked his

exterior temperature gauge. Thirty-two degrees.

Made it …

The glow of the albino’s hide in his light registered in D.J.’s vision a split second before the

gargantuan mouth exploded sideways into the submersible. Spinning upside down, D.J. tried

to scream, the sickening crunch of ceramic and Lexan popping in his ears as his skull imploded,

splattering his brains across the shattering cockpit glass.

The Megalodon snorted the warm blood into its nostrils, its entire sensory system quivering

in delight. It rammed its snout farther into the tight chamber, but was unable to reach the

remains of D.J. Tanaka’s upper torso.

Clutching its crippled prey within its jaws, the male descended back into the warm currents,

guarding its kill.

Jonas Taylor opened his eyes. He was lying on his back, the glider upside down. Seeing

nothing, he fumbled around the inverted submersible until he located the night vision glasses.

One lens was cracked, the other intact. Through the olive-green world he saw tubeworms

dancing around his Lexan bow like alabaster serpents. He attempted to move—stifled by a

sharp pain that shot up his leg. His foot was caught on something. He worked it loose and

turned his body. A warm liquid drained into his eye. He wiped it away, realizing it was blood.

How long have I been out?

Disoriented, he reached above his head and groped for the power switch, but nothing

happened. He tried the radio … dead.

The enormity of his circumstances caused his body to convulse. He was trapped in a

powerless sub, resting beneath 35,000 feet of water.

Then he remembered the Megalodon.

He saw something in the distance—a soft glow of light. The male was swimming slowly

toward the sea floor, a dark object dangling between its upper jaw and snout.

“D.J. …” The crippled submersible was lodged in the predator’s jaws, the light from the

69

Steve Alten

starboard mid-wing somehow still shining. He caught a glimpse of the steel tow line, the slack

now looping and winding itself around the Megalodon’s torso.

Frank Heller sat in his chair, staring at his monitors. “Taylor’s bio signs just jumped. He’s

conscious again and his numbers are all in the red. I’m not getting any readings from D.J.

Mackreides, what are you getting on the subs’ diagnostics?”

“D.J.’s sub is running on emergency power, circling six hundred feet over the second glider,

which is lying on the bottom, powerless.”

Terry continued in vain to make radio contact. “D.J., can you hear me? Jonas, report.”

DeMarco was speaking rapidly with Leon Barre over an internal phone line. The captain

and his crew were stationed in the stern, manning the A-frame’s massive winch.

“Frank, Leon says there’s movement registering on the steel cable. D.J.’s sub is still

attached.”

Heller turned to Terry. “I’m guessing Taylor screwed up and got too close to a black

smoker, frying his engine. Being the team player he is, D.J. refuses to leave him. But if he’s on

emergency power then we need to bring him up before his life support system shuts down.”

“What are you suggesting?” Terry asked.

“We tow him up by the steel cable.”

Mac spun around in his chair. “What about Jonas?”

“His primary batteries are intact. If he remembers how to engage the emergency pod, then

he’ll survive. If not, there’s nothing we can do about it.”

Terry looked to DeMarco, who nodded.

“Do it. Tow D.J. to the surface as fast as you can.”

Jonas held his breath, watching as the male passed seventy feet directly overhead, its belly

quivering as its jaws opened and closed. The ravenous predator continued to prod its snout into

the remains of the submersible, but could not gain enough leverage to access the gushing meat

wedged inside.

The creature’s attention was focused on D.J.’s bloody remains, unaware that the cable was

going taut, the slack being rapidly taken in from above.

Seconds later, the steel line bit into the monster’s white hide, pinching back the shark’s

pectoral fins.

The cable’s crushing embrace sent the male Megalodon into spasms. It spun its torso in a

fit of rage, whipping its caudal fin to and fro in a futile attempt to free itself. The more it

fought, the more entangled it became.

70

THE

Jonas stared in helpless fascination as the Meg fought in vain, unable to release itself from

the steel bonds. With its pectoral fins pinned to its side, it couldn’t stabilize itself. Shaking its

monstrous head from side to side, it released powerful concussion waves that rocked Jonas’s

sub.

After several minutes, the predator stopped thrashing, exhausted. Within the entanglement

of steel cable, the only sign of life came from the occasional flutter of its gills. Slowly, the Kiku’s

winch began hauling the entrapped creature toward the frigid waters above.

The dying male thrashed again, its movements sending telltale signals of distress throug-

hout the Challenger Deep.

Miles away, a much larger predator moved through the abyss, homing in on the vibrations.

The female had been stalking a school of squid when the vibrations had reached its lateral

line. Instinctively, it knew it was the adult male—by its elevated heart beat and movements it

appeared to be under duress.

Abandoning the squid, it went after its mate.

Jonas waited, lying in a puddle of his own sweat. The moment the Meg disappeared above

the hydrothermal plume, he would activate the emergency release, causing small charges to

detonate around the sub’s chassis, separating his internal pod from the rest of his vessel. The

buoyant Lexan egg would rise quickly, returning him to the surface in a few hours.

If he was lucky his air would not run out.

It appeared out of nowhere, sweeping directly over his inverted sub, its deathly glow

illuminated by the emergency light situated along his keel.

The underside of a triangular snout appeared first, peppered with the dark pores of its

ampullae of Lorenzini. The lower jaw was next, followed by the gill slits and the underside of

the monster’s massive pectoral fins, which revealed a nasty half-moon-shaped bite scar along

the Megalodon’s left limb—evidence of a violent act of reproduction. The distended stomach

and the female’s lacerated cloaca confirmed both the creature’s sex and its unborn young.

The female was at least fifteen feet longer than its mate and possessed twice its girth, the

monster weighing well over thirty tons. As she passed, a quick flurry from her caudal fin

created a powerful concussion wave that sliced through the tubeworms and lifted the damaged

sub off the sea floor.

Jonas braced himself as the AG-II flipped twice before settling in a cloud of silt. He pressed

his face to the nose cone and, as the muck settled, saw the female rise toward the male, which

was still struggling to free itself from the steel cable.

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Steve Alten

The female circled warily, her nostrils inhaling the remnants of D.J.’s blood. Suddenly she

turned, driving her hyperextended jaws around the soft underbelly of her former mate.

The colossal impact drove the smaller Megalodon fifty feet upward. Rows of six-inch

serrated teeth ripped open the male’s pale white hide, the female whipping its monstrous head

from side to side until it tore away a seven-hundred-pound mouthful of flesh and muscle,

exposing the mortally wounded male’s stomach and intestines.

Terry ran out on deck in time to see her father’s helicopter touch down on the helideck.

She waited for him, then dragged him toward the A-frame.

From his daughter’s expression Masao knew there was a problem.

“They made it to the UNIS when something appeared on sonar. We lost communication

with both subs. D.J.’s bio-suit stopped working, but we know he was circling over Jonas’s glider,

which is lying powerless on the sea floor. D.J.’s primary batteries are out, but his mechanical

arm is still attached to the cable; we’re using it to tow him up to the surface.”

Masao was about to ask about Jonas when Leon Barre pushed his way into the

conversation. “She’s coming up now. There’s a lot of weight on the line; D.J. must have gotten

entangled on something down there.”

The Kiku’s winch bit into the slack and dragged the dying male Megalodon toward the

hydrothermal plume as its mate chewed and swallowed its flesh.

Jonas panted as he watched the spectacle through his cracked night vision glasses. The

female refused to abandon her meal, circling her suddenly animated prey.

She struck again, the male reacting as if jolted by electricity. Burying her snout deep within

the gushing wound, she gnashed and gorged upon succulent hot chunks of entrails.

The male’s body spasmed as it rose through the hydrothermal plume. The female escorted

it up, the hot blood of her mate bathing her in a soothing thick river of warmth as she rose out

of the depths.

Free of the plume, she continued to feed, her murderous jaws entrenched deep within the

wound, her teeth shredding the spleen and duodenum as hundreds of gallons of warm blood

rushed into her open mouth and over her torso, insulating her from the cold.

Trapped in his sub, Jonas watched as the two creatures disappeared overhead. He waited

several minutes, but the female did not return.

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THE

And yet Jonas refused to engage the emergency ascent. Huddled in the darkness, he waited

while sixteen thousand pounds per square inch of pressure squeezed the sub’s chassis, looking

for a way in. He was beyond frightened, yet he knew he’d suffocate if he didn’t act soon, his

only shot at survival depended upon him jettisoning the sub’s chassis and floating free in the

Lexan escape pod.

But if he floated toward the surface, the movement would attract the female.

Suffocate or be eaten …

Jonas was drenched in sweat, beginning to feel dizzy again. He couldn’t be sure if it was

from loss of blood or the steadily diminishing supply of air. Waves of panic, accelerated by the

claustrophobia, rattled his nerves. Seven miles of ocean sat on top of him! Seven miles!

Gotta breathe … Gotta get outta here.

His fingers groped along the floor beneath his stomach, locating the small storage compart-

ment. Leaning back, he pulled open the hatch, straining to reach the spare tank of air. He

unscrewed a valve and released a steady stream into the pod.

Rolling over, Jonas strapped himself back into the shoulder harness. Suspended upside

down, he felt along his right side until he found the metal latch box.

Gripping the emergency lever, he yanked back hard on the handle, his effort igniting a half

dozen small charges that cracked open the Abyss Glider’s engine mount, mid-wings, under-

carriage and lights, releasing the Lexan egg.

The emergency pod rose horizontally, its terrified passenger fearful of whether he could

make it through the swirling ceiling of soot … and if he did, what would be waiting for him on

the other side.

Masao held his daughter’s hand. Mac, DeMarco, and Heller were close by, waiting at the

stern rail as the winch strained to gather its submerged line. Every forty seconds or so the cable

would suddenly appear to free itself of its burden, spinning wildly around the spool a dozen or

more revolutions before re-catching its weight and slowing again.

Captain Barre stared at the iron O-ring that connected the pulley from the steel frame of

the winch. It was straining under the weight of its load, threatening to snap apart at any

moment.

Jonas heard the dull roar as the pod floated closer to the swirling silt-covered ceiling. The

moment he entered the vortex he knew he was in trouble. The rapid current grabbed hold of

the buoyant Lexan tube and whipped it around on its perpetual merry-go-round of gravel and

soot and sulfuric gases.

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Steve Alten

Desperate, Jonas rolled the pod into an upright vertical position, managing to guide the

vessel higher through the plume’s dense layers until the torrent released its death grip.

He collapsed on his belly as the Lexan pod floated free, then searched the olive-green void

using his night-vision glasses.

Nothing.

The internal temperature dropped quickly, plunging into the forties. It would be an hour

or more before he reached the surface, and Jonas knew he had to concentrate on keeping

warm. His clothes were soaked with perspiration. His teeth began to chatter.

Pulling himself into a fetal position, he closed his eyes and tried to remain calm.

The Kiku’s crew stood by the stern guardrail, watching the steel cable emerge yard by yard

from the heavy sea, waiting and hoping for D.J.’s submersible to peek out from under the

swells.

Terry pressed her forehead to the cold rail and prayed.

Shouts caught her attention. She opened her eyes, crewmen pointing to the green surface

waters as they began to bubble … gurgling with a bright pink froth.

Seconds later, the enormous head of an albino great white shark broke the surface, the

dead creature as large as a school bus.

Dangling from its horrible jaws, held fast by the cable was the remains of the mangled

Abyss Glider.

Terry screamed; her father swooned.

Frank Heller dropped to his knees.

The creature kept rising, revealing its own ravaged lower torso. Steel cable held together

hunks of partially eaten flesh, muscle, and internal organs. The behemoth had been gutted

from its pectoral fins clear down to the base of its crescent-shaped caudal fin, its assailant even

ravaging the male’s twin claspers.

The shocked crew could only stare as the partially devoured monster was hauled out of the

water and over the stern rail. As the forty-five-foot shark struck the deck, the bloated, nearly

unrecognizable remains of D.J. Tanaka poured out over the planks.

Mac caught Terry as she fainted.

The escape pod had been rising steadily in the darkness. Loss of blood and the bitter cold

were pushing Jonas deeper into a state of shock. His shivering had ceased, yielding to a loss of

feeling in his toes and fingers, and still he could see nothing but pitch-black water above his

head.

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THE

Hang on, J.T. It’s just a walk in the park …

Ten-foot swells had become twenty-foot peaks, the approaching storm lifting the two

motorized orange rafts onto its back before dropping them precariously into its next valley.

James Mackreides lowered his binoculars and scanned the seascape with his naked eye

from the bow of the lead Zodiac. The high seas and blistering rain made it nearly impossible

to see, let alone spot a three-foot red flag.

Mac’s radio crackled to life. “You see anything, DeMarco?”

“Yeah, I can see the storm’s getting worse. Your friend’s dead, Mac, the bio-suit stopped

transmitting his life signs thirty minutes ago. I feel for your loss, but we’re risking a dozen lives

in these seas looking for a corpse.”

“He’ll surface.”

“Five minutes and I’m calling it.”

“Are you close, Al?”

“Am I close to what?”

“Your balls. I was just wondering, because if you call this rescue mission before we find

Jonas’s escape pod I’ll be introducing your boys to my Bowie knife and the three of you can

sing soprano in the church choir this Christmas.”

Terry Tanaka stood in the bow of the second Zodiac, her almond eyes searching the valley

of waves ahead of her as another crewman wretched over the side. Until she found Taylor’s

escape pod there would be no grieving, no time for the pain gripping her heart. She had to

locate the man whom she had ridiculed, and somehow she knew he was still alive.

“Wait—” Something had disappeared behind a swell … a flicker of color. She pointed off

the starboard bow. “There! Head over there.”

The red vinyl flag was just visible over the crest of an incoming wave. Terry guided them

to the buoyant capsule. They could barely see Jonas’s body through the fogged interior.

A team of divers jumped in as Mac’s craft joined them. “Is he alive?”

Divers opened the rear hatch and reached in, grabbing Jonas by his legs. They hauled him

out of the craft as it quickly filled with water and sank, disappearing beneath the waves.

One of the divers turned, signaling a thumbs-up.

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AFTERMATH

FRANK HELLER COULDN’T FIGURE OUT how the news had spread so quickly.

It had taken less than three hours for the Kiku to reach the Apra Harbor Naval Base in

Guam. Despite heavy winds and rain, two Japanese television crews and members of a local

station were waiting for them on the dock, along with press reporters and photographers from

the Navy, the Manila Times, and the local Guam Sentinel. They surrounded Heller the moment

he disembarked, bombarding him with questions about the giant shark suspended from the

Kiku’s A-frame, the dead pilot, and the surviving scientist who’d been airlifted ahead for

medical treatment.

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THE

Heller read from a prepared statement. “The Kiku was on a humanitarian mission to repair

damage to an earthquake early warning system deployed in the Mariana Trench. Two of our

one-man submersibles were deployed to retrieve one of the array’s damaged drones. During

the course of this mission our subs were attacked by the creature you see before you. Jonas

Taylor suffered a concussion and is being treated for hypothermia. The other pilot, D.J.

Tanaka, son of oceanographer Masao Tanaka, was killed.”

“Dr. Heller, is this shark a great white or a Megalodon?”

“I’m a medical doctor, not a marine biologist, but we suspect it’s a Meg.”

“Where will you take the shark?”

“It’ll be stored in a refrigerated warehouse for examination. The remains will eventually be

taken to the Tanaka Oceanographic Institute.”

“What happened to the creature? Obviously, it was attacked.”

“We’re not certain at this point. The shark might have been ripped apart by the cable that

entangled it, and drowned.”

“It looks like it’s been eaten,” said a balding American with bushy eyebrows. “Is it possible

another shark attacked this one?”

“It’s possible, but—”

“Are you saying there are more of these monsters out there?”

“Did anyone see—?”

“Do you think—?”

Heller raised his hands. “One at a time.” He nodded to an American reporter.

“Xavier Solis, Manila Times. Our readers will want to know if it’s safe to go boating?”

Heller spoke confidently. “Let me put your fears to rest. If there are any more of these

sharks in the Mariana Trench, six miles of near-freezing water stands between them and us.

Apparently, it’s kept them trapped down there for at least two million years. It’ll probably keep

’em down there a few million more.”

“Dr. Heller?”

Heller turned. David Adashek stood before him. “Isn’t Professor Taylor a marine paleo-

biologist?”

Heller glanced furtively at the crowd. “Yes. He has done some work—”

“More than some work. His book justifies the existence of these Megalodon sharks in the

deep-sea trenches. Was Tanaka’s mission organized to test his theory? And if not, why would

you risk—”

“We were salvaging a damaged drone designed to detect earthquakes. The Tanaka Institute

has no interest in prehistoric sharks. Now if you don’t mind, we’ve just lost a loved one, try to

understand.” Heller ignored the flurry of questions that followed him as he pushed through

the crowd.

“Clear out, you vultures.” Leon Barre’s deep accented voice cut through the heavy weather

as the captain supervised the transfer of the Megalodon carcass onto the dock. A four-story-

high boom raised the creature off the stern deck, preparing to swing the netted remains over

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the pier and onto an awaiting flatbed truck.

A photographer pushed to the front and shouted, “Captain, could we get you in the shot

for a little perspective?”

The big Filipino waved his arm at the crane operator, who stopped the boom. Momentum

sent the Megalodon’s head swaying to and fro, drenching the crowd with bloody seawater.

Cameramen scrambled for an angle, but the carcass was so long it would not fit into the frame.

Leon Barre stood beside the giant head, the boat captain clearly unnerved to be so close

to the mouth. He gazed inside the lower jaw line at the teeth, the front row standing upright,

another five to six rows of replacement teeth folded neatly behind them, back into the gum

line. Feeling his knees go weak, the burly sea captain backed away.

“Smile,” someone shouted.

Barre turned, staring grimly ahead. “Just take the damn picture and let me be.”

Aboard the Yacht: The Magnate

It was another gorgeous day in San Diego, the sky near cloudless, the temperature a balmy

78 degrees. San Diego’s harbor was teeming with boaters, the catamarans racing beneath the

Coronado Bay Bridge, the whale watchers moving farther out to sea, hoping to catch a close-up

view of California’s gray whales, twenty-five thousand of which were passing through San

Diego’s waters on their annual 7,000-mile migration from the Bering Sea to Baja California.

The ninety-seven-foot Abeking & Rasmussen super yacht, Magnate, moved at a leisurely

three knots, its course paralleling the San Diego skyline. A sleek fortress of fiberglass and steel,

she was white with pine-green trim, possessing a 25-foot beam and 9.5-foot draft. Her twin

1200 horsepower engines could drive her through choppy seas at an easy twenty knots, her lush

interior making the ride a pleasure in any weather.

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THE

Bud Harris had purchased the yacht from the owner of a struggling Arena League football

franchise. He had gutted the insides, redoing everything in polished teak and mahogany, the

walls and cabinets in a deep cherry wood. The floors were blue sapphire marble, the bay

windows tinted, running floor to ceiling in the master suite, which was complete with a small

gymnasium, home entertainment center, and a Jacuzzi.

Maggie Taylor was lying topless in a padded lounge chair on the teakwood deck of the

master suite’s private sundeck, her oiled body glistening under the noonday sun.

Bud watched her from his Jacuzzi, reading the Los Angeles Times. “You always said a tan

looks good on camera.”

Maggie shielded her eyes, squinting up at him. “This is for you, baby.” She rolled over on

her stomach to watch CNN on a wall-mounted television. “How about another drink? This is

hard work.”

“You got it.” He climbed out of the tub, wrapped himself in a towel, and headed back

inside the air-conditioned stateroom.

Crossing to the bar, he grabbed two glasses and a bottle of wine—

“Bud! Bud, get out here!”

Heart racing, he ran across the marble floor, nearly slipping. “What the hell, Maggie? I

nearly broke my neck.”

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Maggie was clutching a towel to her breasts, staring openmouthed at the TV. “I don’t

believe it.”

Bud hurried over, gazing at the Special News Report. “Jesus … is that thing real?”

The Megalodon’s head and open jaws filled the screen, its body dangling from a crane.

Bud turned up the sound:

“… experts believe could be Carcharodon megalodon, a giant prehistoric ancestor of the

modern-day great white. No one seems to know how the creature could have survived, but Dr.

Taylor, who was injured in the capture, is an expert on these sharks and is expected to provide

some answers. Taylor is recovering at the naval hospital in Guam …”

Bud lowered the volume. “Dr. Taylor? Maggie, you think they mean Jonas?”

“Who the hell else could they mean?” She rushed into the master suite, Bud shouting after

her, “Hey? Where are you going?”

“I need to call my office.” She grabbed her cell phone, dialing frantically. Her assistant

answered. “It’s Maggie. Any messages?”

“Mr. Henderson called twice, and I’ve got a dozen messages from media outlets looking

for a quote. Something about your husband. Oh, and a David Adashek’s been trying to reach

you all morning.”

“The rest can wait, give me Adashek’s number.”

Maggie scrawled the number on a cocktail napkin, hung up, then dialed the overseas

operator to connect her to Guam. Several minutes later, the line was ringing.

“Adashek.”

“David, what the hell is happening?”

“Maggie? I’ve been trying to reach you all night. Where are you?”

“Never mind that. I just saw the news report. Where did that shark come from? Where’s

Jonas? Has anyone spoken with him yet?”

“Slow down. Jonas is recovering in the Guam naval hospital. He’s okay, but there’s a guard

posted at his door so no one can speak with him. The Megalodon’s for real. Looks like you

were wrong about your husband.”

Maggie felt ill.

“Maggie, you still there?”

“Shut up, I’m trying to think.”

“Maggie, this could be the story of the decade. Jonas is a major player, you could still get

to him before anyone else.”

“That’s true.”

“Be sure to ask him about the other shark.”

Maggie’s heart skipped a beat. “What other shark?”

“The one that ate the one that killed the Tanaka kid. Everybody’s talking about it, but the

Tanaka Institute’s people are refusing to comment. Jonas is the only one who knows what

really happened down there. Maybe he’d talk to you?”

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THE

Maggie’s mind raced. “Okay, okay, I’m coming to Guam. Now listen carefully: I want you

to stay on the story. Try to find out what the authorities are going to do to locate this other

shark.”

“Maggie, they don’t even know if it surfaced. The crew of the Kiku are claiming it never left

the trench.”

“Just stay on it, someone will talk. There’s an extra grand in it for you if you can get me

some inside dope about this second shark. I’ll call you as soon as I land in Guam.”

“You’re the boss.”

Maggie hung up.

Bud was standing next to her. “So?”

“Bud, I need your help. Who do you know in Guam?”

Naval Hospital, Guam

The Navy MP on duty outside Jonas’s room at the naval hospital rose to attention as Terry

approached the door.

“Sorry, ma’am. No press allowed.”

“I’m not with the press. My name’s Terry Tanaka. I was with—”

“Oh … excuse me.” The MP stepped aside. “My apologies, ma’am. And … my condolences.”

He averted his eyes.

“Thank you.” She knocked softly, then entered the private hospital room.

Jonas lay in bed, facing the window. A gauze bandage was wrapped around his forehead,

an IV dripped into his left arm. He turned toward Terry as she entered, his face pale.

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“Terry? I’m sorry.”

She nodded. “How are you feeling?”

“Better. Just tired. Where’s your father?”

“Making funeral arrangements. He’ll be here in the morning.”

Jonas turned toward the window, unsure of what to say. “This is my fault, I should have

never—”

“You tried to warn us. We ridiculed you … especially me.”

“I shouldn’t have let D.J. go. I should have—”

“Stop it, Jonas,” Terry snapped. “I can’t deal with my own guilt, let alone yours. D.J. was

an adult, and he certainly wasn’t about to listen to you. He wanted to go, and so did I. We’re

all devastated … in shock. I don’t know what’s going to happen next. I can’t think that far

ahead—” Tears flowed from her almond eyes.

Moving to him, she sat on the edge of his bed, hugging him while she cried on his chest.

Jonas smoothed her hair, trying to comfort her.

After a few minutes, she sat up and turned away from Jonas to wipe her eyes. “You’re

seeing me in rare form. I never cry.”

“You don’t always have to be so tough.”

She smiled. “Yeah, I do. I told you, my mom died when I was very young. I’ve had to take

care of Dad and D.J. all these years by myself.”

“How’s your dad doing?”

“He’s a wreck. I need to get him through this. JAMSTEC’s not making that easy. The

Japanese are flying in tomorrow morning, insisting on a meeting.”

Jonas looked up at her. “Terry, you need to know something. There were two Megs in the

trench. The one that the Kiku hauled up, it was attacked by a larger female. She was rising with

the carcass …”

“No, it’s okay. Everyone on board was watching. Nothing else surfaced. Heller says the

other creature, this female, couldn’t survive the journey through the icy waters. You told us

that yourself.”

“Terry, listen to me.” He tried to sit up, but the pain forced him down again. “The male’s

carcass … there was a lot of blood in the water. Megalodons are like great whites. They’re not

warm-blooded like mammals, but they are warm-bodied.”

“What’s your point?”

“When the Kiku began hauling up D.J.’s sub, the male became caught in the steel cable. I

saw the larger Meg, the female … she was rising with the carcass, remaining within the warm

blood stream. I watched her disappear into the colder waters. I think the male’s blood trail was

keeping her warm.”

“How do you know she didn’t return to the trench?”

“I don’t. But she wouldn’t be so quick to abandon her kill. If the female remained within

her dead mate’s blood stream, she could have made it to the thermocline. She’s much bigger

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THE

than the male, sixty feet or more. A shark that size could probably cover the distance from the

trench to the warmer surface waters—”

“Jonas, the second shark never surfaced, just the remains of the first … and D.J.” She

wiped back tears. “I have to go. Try to get some rest.”

She squeezed his hand, then left the room.

83

EVIDENCE

JONAS AWOKE WITH A START. He was in the Abyss Glider capsule, bobbing along the

surface of the western Pacific. Sunlight glared through the Lexan Plexiglas sphere; waves

washed over the escape pod’s acrylic dome.

The Kiku was gone.

I’ve been dreaming. The rescue, the hospital … Terry—it was all a dream.

He stared at his hands, covered in dried blood. He felt the lump on his scalp.

How long have I been out? Hours? Days?

The water beneath him rippled with curtains of sunlight. He stared down into the deep blue

sea, watching … waiting for the Megalodon to appear.

He knew she was down there.

He knew she was coming.

The white glow appeared first, then the snout and that demonic grin. The albino monster

rose majestically beneath him, her sinister mouth widening, her jaws opening, revealing her

pink upper gums as her front row of serrated teeth jutted forward, hyperextending … her

widening mouth a black abyss—

“Ahhhh!”

Jonas awoke with a start. He was in bed, his hospital gown bathed in sweat. He was alone

in his room. The digital clock read 12:06 a.m.

A dream? More like a nightmare.

He fell back on the damp sheets and stared at the moonlit ceiling, then forced a deep

breath, exhaling slowly.

The fear was gone. Suddenly, he realized he felt better. The fever, the drugs … maybe it

was the vindication. I’m hungry, he thought.

Wrapping a blanket over his shoulders, he gripped the IV drip’s stand and wheeled it into

the empty corridor. He found the MP at the nursing station flirting with one of the nurses.

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THE

“Mr. Taylor … you’re up.”

“And I’m hungry. Where can I find something to eat?”

“Cafeteria’s closed till six,” the nurse said.

The MP fished through a brown paper bag. “I’ve got a sub … a sandwich. You can have it.”

Jonas stared at it, his mouth watering. “No, that’s all right—”

“Go ahead. It’s good stuff.”

“All right, sure, thanks.” Jonas took the Italian sub and began to eat. He felt like he hadn’t

tasted food in days. “This is great,” he said between bites.

“Good subs are hard to come by out here,” the young man said. “Only place I know is

halfway around the island. Me and my buddies, we make the trip once a week, just to kind of

remind us of home. I don’t know why they don’t open something closer to the base. Seems to

me …”

The kid continued talking, but Jonas wasn’t listening. Something had caught his eye on the

television. “Excuse me,” he said. “Can you turn that up?”

The MP stopped talking. “Sure.” He raised the volume.

“… fourteen pilot whales and two dozen dolphins beached themselves along Saipan’s

northern shore. Unfortunately, most of the mammals died before rescuers could push them

back out to sea. In other news …”

“Saipan. That’s in the middle of the northern Marianas, isn’t it?”

The MP nodded. “That’s right, sir. Third island up the chain.”

Jonas looked away, thinking. “Thanks for the sandwich.” He turned and headed back down

the hall, wheeling his IV.

Western Pacific

8 Miles off the Coast of Saipan

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Steve Alten

The 455-foot cargo ship, RMS St. Columba, pushed through the dark waters of the western

Pacific, her mass displacing 7800 tons. The vessel had set sail from the United Kingdom two

months earlier, making her way to South Africa, the Ascensions, and the Canary and St.

Helena Islands before continuing her voyage along the Asian coast. While most of her gross

tonnage was devoted to cargo, she also carried seventy-nine passengers, the majority of them

boarding in Japan, bound for the Hawaiian Islands.

Thirty-year-old Tehdi Badaut stood by the starboard rail, watching the moonlight dance

across the surface of the Philippine Sea. The French-Portuguese officer had been assigned to

oversee the transportation of six Arabian horses, caged in pairs in specially built stalls that were

mounted in the forward deck. Two of the horses were studs, worth a small fortune, the others

all national and Legion of Honor winners.

Tehdi approached the first stall, offering a carrot to a three-year-old black mare. He

enjoyed caring for the animals, and the truth was, there were worse duties on board. “How’s

my lady tonight? Bet you wish you could run around this ship, huh? I’d love to take you out of

that cage, but I can’t.”

The mare shook its head, agitated.

“What? Suddenly you don’t like my carrots?”

The other horses started prancing in tight circles, rising up on their hindquarters. Within

minutes they were all snorting and bucking, bashing their frames against their wooden stalls.

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THE

The officer pulled the radio from his back pocket. “It’s Badaut, on the main deck, forward.

Better send that horse trainer, something’s wrong with the horses.”

The female moved effortlessly through the thermocline, its torpedo-shaped body gliding

with slow, snake-like movements perpetrated by the shark’s powerful swimming muscles, which

attached internally to her cartilaginous vertebral column and externally to her thick skin. As

her flank muscles contracted, the Megalodon’s crescent-moon-shaped tail pulled in a rhythmic,

undulating motion, propelling the monster forward. The immense caudal fin gave the fish

maximum thrust with minimal drag while maintaining a streamlined flow through the sea.

She was one of the last of her kind, and the first in more than 80,000 years to venture from

the abyss. Hunger had driven her from her warm-water purgatory, and she had guarded her

kill nearly to the surface, until the gray curtains of daylight had burned into her sensitive

nocturnal eyes, forcing her retreat into the depths. She had remained two thousand feet below

the surface in total darkness, her senses “seeing” everything. Her ampullae of Lorenzini knew

the Kiku by the electrical impulses emanating from the ship’s keel. The female had followed

the ship to Guam, her primordial senses gradually becoming attuned to the magnetic variations

in her new geography.

Although the Megalodon had no external ears, the female could “hear” sound waves as

they struck sensory hair cells located in her inner ear. Carried by the auditory nerve, these

signals not only alerted the predator to fluctuations within her environment, but allowed her

to track the precise direction the disturbances were originating from.

Unlike the trench, there were disturbances everywhere. The female could feel deep,

tantalizing heartbeats coming from distant pods of whales, and she could sense a cacophony

of sounds created by the splashing of dozens of breaching dolphins. More alien acoustics and

electrical fields teased her senses … but she remained in the mid-water realm, waiting until the

painful sunlight had diminished before rising once more.

Hitching a ride on an upwelling of cold, nutrient-rich water, the creature ascended, the

oxygen-rich surface waters continuing to stimulate her hunger.

The horse trainer, a Floridian woman named Dawn Salone, watched helplessly as a half-

Arabian pinto filly bashed its head against the wooden gate of its stable, the other horses

following suit. “What the hell’s spooking them? I’ve never seen anything like this.”

“They’re getting worse,” said Tehdi. “Perhaps you should tranquilize them before they

injure themselves. And those wooden gates … they won’t hold up too much longer.”

The moon peeked out from behind a cloud formation, casting its glow upon the Pacific—

—illuminating a seven-foot-tall, ghostly-white dorsal fin that had surfaced minutes earlier

off the starboard beam.

The horses went into a frenzy, neighing and bucking, their coats lathered in sweat. A few

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of the taller stallions smashed their skulls against the fifteen-foot stable roofs.

Dawn had seen enough. “I’ll get the tranquilizer gun, you stay with them.” She headed aft,

jogging along the starboard rail as she headed for the cargo ship’s infrastructure.

Hitching a ride on the displacement current generated by the moving ship, the 62,000-

pound shark continued gliding through a stream of surface refuse and human waste discharged

by the steel vessel.

Detecting the vibrations of the panicking horses, the curious female did something her

ancestors had once practiced while hunting close to shore—she raised her head above the

surface and spy-hopped.

The Meg watched the moving landmass long enough to determine she would not be feeding

upon the giant. Descending once more, she headed inland toward the coastal waters off Saipan.

Saipan

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THE

The moon retreated behind a canopy of cirrus clouds. Small waves lapped along Saipan’s

deserted beaches. Somewhere at sea, a humpback moaned a distress call, the haunting cry

blotted out by the thunder of the approaching airship.

The landing struts of the two-passenger Guimbal G2 Cabri helicopter bounced twice upon

the dirt runway before settling down. The pilot glanced over at his lone passenger, who looked

a bit shaken after the forty-five-minute flight.

“You okay, J.T.?”

“I’m fine, Mac.”

“You don’t look fine, you look pale.”

“I’ll be sure to work on my tan.”

“Maybe you shouldn’t have yanked out your own catheter.”

“After the way you pulled out my IV, I wasn’t about to let you touch that.”

Jonas took a deep breath as the chopper’s rotor blades gradually slowed to a stop. They had

landed on the perimeter of a makeshift airfield. A faded wooden sign read, “Welcome to

Saipan.”

“Okay, Mac, where’s this fisherman friend of yours? I thought he was meeting us?”

“They usually keep the boats near the water. And he’s not a friend; he’s the brother-in-law

of one of my former girls. So don’t expect any favors; this is strictly a business transaction.”

Jonas followed Mac down a path leading to the beach, the sounds of the crashing shoreline

growing louder in the distance.

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Steve Alten

The last boat anchored in the shallows hardly looked seaworthy. Eighteen feet long,

carrying a deep draft that left less than two feet of free board, the wooden vessel lay low in the

water, its worn gray planks showing specks of red paint that dated back to the Korean War.

Only one person was on board, a short, thick Filipino man in his mid-thirties, wearing a

sweatshirt and jeans. He was busy repairing a crab trap when the two Americans appeared on

the beach.

Mac waved.

The islander ignored him.

“John Paul, what’s wrong, bro?”

“What’s wrong? What’s wrong is you still owe me money. Last time we do business you

want three girls for those two congressmen from Texas, I get you three girls, you never pay

me!”

“Girls, John Paul. You sent me livestock. The fat broad weighed more than me, and the

older one had to be in her sixties—hell, she had no teeth.”

“Ahh, forget you.” The fisherman looked at Jonas. “You have money?”

“John Paul Chua, this is Jonas Taylor.”

Jonas extended his hand.

John Paul ignored it, sniffing the night air. “Smell that? Dead whale, floating about two

miles out. You want I take you there? Cost you one hundred American. Cash up front.”

Mac shook his head. “Fifty, which is worth more than your whole damn boat.”

“Eighty. You take it or leave it.”

“Fine.” Jonas turned to his friend. “Mac, pay the man.”

“What? You don’t have any money?”

“My wallet’s back on the Kiku. Besides, you owe me twice that in bail money. Or did you

forget our trip to Tijuana?”

“You remember that, huh?” Mac dug into his wallet, handing John Paul two twenty-dollar

bills. “You’ll get the rest if and when we make it back to the dock in one piece.”

“Ahh.”

Jonas and Mac climbed aboard, the boat rocking beneath their weight.

Jonas knew he needed some kind of evidence to prove the female had surfaced. The

numerous whale and dolphin beachings weren’t enough, but if John Paul Chua had really come

across a dead whale and the female had killed it, then the oversized bite radius would be all the

proof he needed.

The Filipino cut the engine as the dead whale’s stench became overpowering. Handing Mac

an oar, he had him paddle the last fifty yards.

“There she is, just like I said. Now give me the rest of my money.”

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Mac fished out another forty dollars, slapping the bills in the fisherman’s hand. “I want a

receipt.”

“What you need a receipt for?”

“I’m sending it to your wife.”

Jonas located a flashlight, using it to inspect the dead whale. It was a humpback, a mature

female, perhaps forty feet long. “Mac, there’s blood pooling everywhere but I can’t find the

wound.”

“Orcas like to attack the belly,” John Paul said, counting his money.

Grabbing Mac’s oar, Jonas used it to bob the carcass up and down in an attempt to flip it

over, his effort causing the boat to teeter.

“Lose that oar, it cost you another twenty dollar.”

“Easy, Crazy Eddie.” Mac turned to Jonas. “There’s thirty tons of whale there. You’ll flip

our boat before you roll that carcass.”

“Agreed. John Paul, do you have a diving mask?”

“A diving mask? Jonas, are you crazy? What are you going to do? Stick your head

underwater for a quick peek? With all that blood in the water, there must be a dozen sharks

down there, waiting for a dumbass like you to join the buffet.”

“Actually Mac, I haven’t seen a single shark. Have you?”

Mac aimed his light at the water. “You’re right.”

Jonas stopped to think about that when something illuminated in Mac’s flashlight beam.

“Wait. Shine your light near that flipper, that’s it, right there.”

The beacon settled on a jagged object jammed into an exposed section of the whale’s rib

cage just above the waterline.

“Mac, I can’t be sure, but I think that’s a tooth.”

“Again with the tooth?”

“If it is a tooth and it’s white that’s all the proof I’ll need. Can you bring us in closer?”

Taking the oar, Mac paddled on the starboard side of the boat.

Jonas reached out, feeling the rough edges of the root. “It’s definitely a tooth, but its point

is wedged tight inside the humpback’s rib cage. Mac, I need something to pry it out with.”

“Who do I look like? Mr. Goodwrench?” Mac turned to the fisherman. “Where’s your

tools?”

“Ten dollars.”

“Sonuva bitch …” Mac tossed him his last twenty. “I want change.”

John Paul grinned, pointing to a storage bin.

Mac searched through the foul-smelling wooden box. Locating a hammer, he handed it to

Jonas. “Don’t drop it or Happy Harry here will be asking for the shirt off my back.”

Jonas leaned out over the side, attempting to pry the tooth loose using the back end of the

hammer.

Mac grabbed the oar, pressing the paddle to the blubber to keep the unstable boat close.

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“Steady … a little bit more—”

The six-inch alabaster tooth pulled loose, flipping high into the air.

Jonas caught it—as a massive ivory-white snout, jaw, and upper row of teeth gracefully

broke the surface along the far side of the whale’s remains, the creature’s lower jaw emerging

right below Jonas as the submerged Megalodon clamped down upon the dead humpback’s

torso, dragging the entire carcass below.

Mac and Jonas stared at the surface, pie-eyed.

John Paul crossed himself, muttering in Hiligaynon.

Before they could speak, the dead humpback floated back to the surface, this time belly-

side up, revealing a nine-foot-wide, three-foot-deep jagged crater-shaped wound.

John Paul’s mouth hung open. “That no orca bite … that’s a demon.”

“Okey-dokey. Jonas, we good?”

Jonas felt his throat constrict. “Leaving now would be a really good thing.”

John Paul gunned the engine. It flooded, coughing blue smoke as it died. Grabbing the

hammer from Jonas, the Filipino tore off the outboard’s hood and proceeded to whack the

motor, the loud blows reverberating across the deck.

Jonas yelled, “John Paul … no!”

A stark-white, seven-foot dorsal fin rose from the black sea, slowly circling the boat.

Mac shoved John Paul aside and hurriedly checked the spark plugs. He tried the engine

again.

It spewed more smoke and died.

The dorsal fin changed course, the shark moving toward the boat to investigate.

The female had been so focused on feeding that it had not sensed the wooden craft.

Detecting these new vibrations, the Meg nudged the boat’s keel with its snout, jolting the craft

with enough force to knock Jonas and Mac off their feet.

John Paul fell backwards over his crab trap and landed in the water.

Jonas grabbed the oar. “Start the engine, I’ll help John Paul.”

The fisherman surfaced.

Jonas extended the oar to the splashing Filipino—as the Meg’s ghostly white head rose

straight out of the sea, engulfing the man whole in one swift ascent.

Jonas staggered back.

Mac grabbed John Paul’s hammer and started smashing it against the motor as he tried to

turn it over—

Miraculously, the engine started.

Veering away from the carcass, Mac executed a tight one-hundred-and eighty-degree turn

that nearly tossed Jonas overboard.

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Lights appeared in the distance, Saipan’s shoreline beckoning two miles away.

Jonas sat down next to Mac, visibly shaken. “Christ, that poor bastard.”

“Yeah. At least he died a wealthy man.”

Jonas’s eyes widened as he glanced over his friend’s shoulder. “Mac, we have company.”

A ten-foot-high wake was racing after the boat, an unseen luminous mass pushing it.

Mac zigged and zagged, but the wave continued closing the distance. “Okay, professor, I’m

open to suggestions.”

“She’s homing in on our engine.”

“No shit? You went to college for that?”

As they watched, the wake disappeared, the monster going deep.

“Thank God.”

Jonas looked around. “No, Mac … this isn’t good. She’ll come up from below.”

“How do you know that?”

“Don’t you ever watch Shark Week on the Discovery Channel? It’s what they do!”

Mac veered hard to port as they nearly sideswiped the first in a series of marker buoys, the

boat’s wake causing its bell to toll.

“Okay, Mac … radical idea time.”

The female descended, her lateral line locked in on the engine’s vibrations. Pumping her

tail harder, the agitated predator suddenly ascended, her soulless gray-blue eyes rolling back

an instant before—

Wa-boosh! The sea erupted as the Meg smashed straight up through the keel of John Paul’s

boat, splintering it into kindling.

Flopping sideways back into the sea, the female moved back and forth through the debris

field, searching for prey. A chorus of dull gongs accompanied her thrashing caudal fin, the

marker buoys’ bells renting the night air—save for one.

Jonas and Mac hugged the nearest buoy, the two dripping wet men balancing precariously

on either side of its steel frame. Jonas’s right hand gripped the bell, silencing it.

Thirty feet below, the white glow passed beneath them, heading back out to sea to continue

feasting on the humpback.

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TERRY TANAKA ENTERED the naval hospital and glanced at her watch—8:40 a.m. That

gave her exactly twenty minutes to get Jonas to Commander McGovern’s office, assuming he

was in any condition to travel. She walked down the empty hallway, the Navy MP no longer on

duty.

Jonas’s door was ajar.

Inside, a woman with platinum blond hair was ransacking a chest of drawers. The bed was

empty. Jonas was gone.

“Can I help you?” Terry asked.

Maggie jumped. “I’m … I’m looking for my husband.”

“You won’t find him in a drawer. Wait … you’re Maggie?”

Maggie’s eyes narrowed. “That’s right, I’m Mrs. Taylor. Who the hell are you?”

“Terry Tanaka.”

Maggie eyed her up and down. “Well, well …”

“I’m a friend. My brother … he was the one who was killed. I stopped by to drive Dr.

Taylor to the naval base.”

Maggie’s disposition changed. “Sorry … about your brother. Did you say naval base? What

does the Navy want with Jonas?”

“There’s a hearing. Exactly what are you doing here?”

“My husband was nearly killed. Where else would I be but by his side?”

Terry frowned. “Not that it’s any of my business, but—”

“—but you’re right,” said Maggie, “it’s not your business. Anyway, since Jonas obviously

isn’t here, he must already be at the meeting, so maybe you can take me?”

The hearing at Guam’s naval base took place in a refrigerated warehouse that had once

been used to “hold” the bodies of deceased soldiers awaiting transport back to the States.

Under three sets of mobile surgical lights lay the remains of the male Megalodon. Two

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Japanese men, both scientists from JAMSTEC, were busy examining the enormous jaws of the

ancient predator.

An MP greeted Terry and Maggie, handing each woman a lined coat as they entered the

cooler.

A conference table and chairs had been set on the far side of the room. Frank Heller and

Al DeMarco were consoling Masao, who wore dark sunglasses to obscure his red-rimmed eyes.

Terry embraced her father, then introduced Maggie.

Commander Bryce McGovern, a silver-haired veteran of two wars, entered the warehouse,

followed by an aide and a Frenchman in his late forties. “I’m Commander McGovern. This is

Andre Dupont of the Cousteau Society.”

“I’m Tanaka,” Masao said. “My daughter, Terry.”

The commander nodded. “Our condolences. We’ll try to make this briefing as painless as

possible. Mr. Tanaka, is everyone present?”

“Dr. Tsukamoto and Dr. Simidu have just arrived from the Japan Marine Science and

Technology Center. But Jonas Taylor is not here. Apparently, he left the hospital late last

night.”

McGovern grimaced. “Our only real witness. Anyone know where Dr. Taylor went?”

Terry pointed to Maggie. “There’s his wife. Ask her.”

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Maggie flashed a smile. “I’m sure Jonas will show up eventually. Studying these creatures

was such a big part of our lives.”

Terry rolled her eyes.

“Let’s get started,” said McGovern, taking his place at the head of the table. “If everyone

can find seats … including the two gentlemen by the shark.” The commander waited. “The

Mariana Trench is under United States jurisdiction. As such, the United States Navy has

assigned me to investigate the incident that occurred in the Challenger Deep. With all due

respect to the bereaved, my rules are simple: I’m going to ask the questions and you people are

going to provide me with the answers. First question,” he pointed toward the Megalodon

carcass, “would somebody please tell me what that thing is over there?”

Dr. Simidu, the younger of the two Japanese, replied. “Commander, JAMSTEC has

examined the teeth of the creature and compared it with those of Carcharodon carcharias, the

great white shark, and its extinct prehistoric cousin, Carcharodon megalodon.” Simidu unfolded

a towel, revealing one of the male Megalodon’s teeth. “This is an upper tooth. As you can see,

the tooth has a chevron, or scar, above the root, identifying it as a Megalodon. Its existence in

the Mariana Trench is shocking, to say the least.”

“Not to us, Dr. Simidu,” replied Andre Dupont. “The disappearance of the Megalodon has

always been a mystery, but the HMS Challenger’s discovery in 1873 of several ten-thousand-

year-old fossilized teeth dredged from the floor of the Mariana Trench made it clear that some

members of the species may have survived.”

McGovern paused, allowing his stenographer to catch up. “How many more of these

creatures are down there, and is there a danger to the local island population?”

“There’s no danger.” All heads turned to Frank Heller. “Commander, the shark you see

here attacked and killed the pilot of one of our deep-sea submersibles, then became entangled

in our cable and was attacked by another one of its kind. These creatures have been trapped

in a tropical layer at the bottom of the Mariana Trench for God knows how many millions of

years. The only reason you even see this specimen before you is because we accidentally hauled

it up to the surface.”

“So you’re telling me at least one more of these … these Megalodons exists, but it’s trapped

at the bottom of the trench.”

“That’s correct.”

“You’re wrong, Frank.” Jonas entered from the rear door, followed by Mac, their clothing

still damp. Jonas stopped as he laid eyes on his wife. “Maggie? What are you doing here?”

She looked up innocently. “I came as soon as I heard.”

“Yeah, I’ll bet you did.”

“Dr. Taylor, I presume?” McGovern was losing patience.

“Yes, sir. And this is James Mackreides, a friend of mine.”

McGovern’s eyes blazed. “Yes, the captain and I know one another.” He signaled to the

MP. “Get these men some coats.”

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“There was a second shark, Commander, a female, much larger. She followed the male’s

blood trail out of the abyss. She’s hunting in our surface waters as we speak.”

Masao looked incredulous.

“It’s true, Commander,” said Mac, “and I’ve got the stained skivvies to prove it. Jonas, show

him the tooth.”

Jonas passed the tooth he had taken from the humpback whales carcass to McGovern. The

commander compared it to the tooth Dr. Simidu had handed him. The female’s was an inch

and a half larger than its deceased mate’s.

Masao shook his head. “My God … Jonas, how big was this second shark?”

“The tooth measures just over six inches. Figure ten feet of shark for every inch of tooth,

so about sixty feet. But she’s also a female, and female sharks are much bulkier than their male

counterparts.”

McGovern shook his head. “A predator that size in these coastal waters, it’ll be a human

smorgasbord.”

Dr. Simidu objected, “Megalodon hunted whales, Commander, not humans.”

Mac mumbled to Jonas, “And the occasional Filipino fisherman.”

McGovern massaged his brow, clearly out of his element. “Dr. Taylor, since you seem to

be the closest thing to an expert on these creatures and you were present in the trench, perhaps

you can tell me how this monster managed to surface. Dr. Heller seems convinced these

creatures were trapped below six miles of frigid water.”

“They were. But the first Meg, the male, was bleeding badly. The second, this female, was

ascending within its dense blood stream. As I tried to explain yesterday to Terry, if the

Megalodons are like their cousins the great whites, their blood temperatures will be about

twelve degrees higher than the surrounding ocean water, or in the case of the hydrothermal

layer of the trench, about ninety-two degrees. The Kiku hauled the first Meg topside and the

female followed her kill straight up to our warmer surface waters, protected by a river of hot

blood streaming out of her mate.”

Andre Dupont interrupted. “Dr. Taylor, you keep referring to this second shark as a

female. How do you know for sure?”

“Because I saw her cloaca as she passed over my sub while I was in the trench. She’s much

larger than this first shark … and she’s pregnant.”

Conversations broke out across the conference table.

Mac looked at Jonas. “How the hell do you know she’s pregnant? Did you perform a

gynecological exam while you were down there?”

McGovern banged his palm on the table for quiet. “What else do we need to know about

this … female?”

“Like its mate, it’s an albino. This is a common genetic adaptation to its deep-water

environment, where no light exists. Its eyes will be extremely sensitive to light. Consequently,

it won’t surface during the day.” He turned to Terry. “That’s why no one on board the Kiku saw

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her rise. She would have stayed deep enough to avoid the light. And now that the shark has

adapted to our surface waters, I think she’s going to be very aggressive.”

“Why do you say that?” Dr. Tsukamoto spoke for the first time.

“The deep waters of the Mariana Trench are poorly oxygenated compared to our surface

waters. The higher the oxygen content, the more efficiently the Megalodon’s system will

function. In its new, highly oxygenated environment, the creature will be able to process and

generate greater outputs of energy. In order to accommodate these increases in energy, the

Meg will have to consume greater quantities of food. And, I don’t need to tell you, sufficient

food sources are readily available.”

McGovern’s face darkened. “Our coastal populations could be attacked.”

“No, Commander, these creatures are too large to venture into shallow water. So far, the

female has only attacked whales—”

“And D.J.” Heller reminded him.

“That was actually the male, which this female killed.” Jonas retorted. “In my opinion, we

shouldn’t have been down there.”

“And if this female eats a group of divers? Will you make the same excuse?”

“There’s another concern,” said Masao. “This female’s presence could potentially affect

one of the whale migrations along the Asian coast.”

“Whale migrations?” McGovern looked perplexed.

“Hai. Whale migration patterns began millions of years ago. Some scientists theorize the

mammals first migrated into colder polar waters not just to follow the food, but to escape

Megalodon attacks. I’m not saying one creature could change the annual southern migration

now occurring along the Asian coastline, but if this large female’s presence led to whale beach-

ings in Saipan, then technically there is the potential to create an alternative route. When you

consider the amount of plankton, krill and shrimp required to feed thousands of whales, then

even a slight deviation could affect the species of fish that share the same diets as these

mammals. The sudden competition for food could affect salmon and tuna runs, altering breed-

ing patterns while playing havoc with the local fishing industry for years to come.”

Dr. Simidu and Dr. Tsukamoto whispered to each other in Japanese.

Commander McGovern waited for quiet. “Let me be sure I’m understanding this situation

correctly. Essentially, we have an aggressive sixty-foot version of a great white shark on the

loose, a pregnant female no less, whose mere presence could indirectly affect the fishing

industry of some coastal nation. Does that about sum it up?”

Masao nodded.

“So how do we deal with the situation?”

“Commander, why must you do anything?” Andre Dupont asked. “Since when does the

United States Navy concern itself with the behavioral patterns of a fish?”

“And what if this ‘fish’ starts devouring small boats or scuba divers? What then, Mr.

Dupont?”

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“Dr. Taylor,” said Dr. Tsukamoto, “if this creature’s presence alters the migration patterns

of whales along Japan’s coast, our entire fishing industry could suffer a major setback. JAMSTEC

therefore officially recommends that this creature be found and destroyed.”

McGovern nodded. “I happen to agree. I don’t think nature intended to release these

monsters from the abyss. Despite Mr. Dupont’s assurances, I can’t take the chance that this

… female might venture into populated waters. And what if she has her pups along our coasts?

Christ, we could be looking at dozens of these monsters in the next decade. What then?”

“There’s no precedent for this,” Dupont retorted. “At the very least, we’re dealing with an

endangered species on the brink of extinction, at the most, the scientific find of the century.

You declare war on this shark, and everyone from PETA to the Cousteau Society will be

picketing your naval base starting tomorrow.”

Masao turned to Jonas. “In your opinion, in which direction will this Megalodon head?”

“Difficult to predict. She’ll follow the food, that’s for sure. Problem is, there are four

distinct whale migration patterns heading south from the Arctic Circle as we speak. The Asian

coastline is closest, but right now she’s moving east. There are two major runs occurring off the

coast of Hawaii, plus the big California-Baja migration that intersects with your whale lagoon.

Of course, if she ended up there …”

“What is it, Taylor-san?”

“Maybe you don’t have to kill her. Masao, how close to completion is the Tanaka Lagoon?”

“Two weeks, but JAMSTEC cut off our funding. Jonas, you’re not thinking of capturing

this creature?”

“Why not? The lagoon’s certainly big enough to hold one Megalodon. You could study the

creature while drawing huge crowds. Within a few months you’d be debt free.”

“Tanaka-san,” Dr. Simidu asked, “is this option feasible?”

“Simidu-san, hai, it is possible, assuming we can locate this female.”

Terry stood, Masao’s daughter furious. “Father, what are you thinking? One of these

monsters killed D.J. Our actions allowed this female to surface. We need to kill it before it

hurts anyone else, or starts laying eggs, or having babies … or whatever the hell these things

do to breed.”

Masao turned to his daughter, removing his sunglasses. “Kill? Is that what I’ve taught you?

Do you know what this creature is, Terry? It is not a monster, it is a work of nature, the

culmination of four hundred million years of evolution. Killing this majestic animal is out of

the question. Its capture, however, would bring great honor, great meaning to D.J.’s death. It

is what your brother would want.”

“It’s not what I want!” Terry stood and headed for the exit, slamming the warehouse door

behind her.

Maggie smiled. “Temperamental little thing, isn’t she?”

The two representatives from JAMSTEC were talking rapidly in Japanese. When they were

finished, Dr. Simidu turned to Masao. “Tanaka-san, I have the authority to release funding to

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your institute and will do so if you really believe you can capture this female.”

Masao looked to Jonas. “Taylor-san?”

“The lagoon would have to be finished quickly, the Kiku refitted. If we could locate the

creature, we could tranquilize it, then drag it in using nets and inflatable buoys.”

“Inflatable buoys …” Maggie was scribbling notes. “And why do you need them exactly?”

Jonas turned to his wife. “Unlike whales, sharks don’t float. Being inherently heavier than

seawater, if they stop swimming they’ll sink. Once we tranquilize the female, she’ll sink and

drown unless we can keep water pumping through her gills.”

Mac mumbled. “Oh, is that all.”

“Tanaka-san,” said Dr. Tsukamoto, “you have lost a son to these creatures. With respect,

if you so desire to capture this female, we will agree to underwrite the project and allow you

to complete the lagoon. Of course, assuming you are successful, JAMSTEC will expect full

access to the captured Megalodon, as well as our agreed-upon financial share of the lagoon’s

tourism trade.”

Masao paused, tears welling in his eyes. “I think D.J. would have wanted this. My son

dedicated his life to the advancement of science. The last thing he would want is for us to

destroy this unique specimen. Jonas, will you help us capture the Megalodon?”

“Of course he will,” said Maggie, jumping in.

“Hold it gentlemen … and lady,” said Commander McGovern, rejoining the conversation.

“Mr. Tanaka, just so we understand each other, the Navy cannot support any of these efforts.

My recommendation to my commanding officer will be to use gunboats to patrol the island

shorelines. Should you manage to capture the shark first, so be it. Personally, I hope you’re

successful. Officially, however, the Navy cannot recognize this course of action as being a viable

option.”

McGovern stood, signaling an end to the meeting.

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STRATEGY

THE OFFICER’S GALLEY onboard the Kiku had been converted into a war room. On one

wall Jonas had mounted a large map illustrating the global whale migration patterns. Red pins

indicated the location of the whale carcass off the coast of Saipan and the whale and dolphin

beaching. Although it was too early to establish a pattern, at first glance it appeared as if the

Megalodon was heading east, away from the Philippine Sea and the Asian continent.

Next to the whale map hung a large diagram illustrating the external and internal anatomy

of the great white shark, along with a list of its sensory organs.

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Maggie was on board. Jonas’s spouse had convinced her network to sponsor the expedition

in exchange for complete access to the ship and crew. As chief correspondent, Maggie and her

cameraman, Fred Barch, would film raw footage and crew interviews which they would then

upload to her producer back in California. The segments would be edited down and broadcast

on the evening news in San Diego and their affiliate stations.

It was a huge career break, but it required Maggie to keep up appearances with her soon-

to-be-celebrity husband. When she showed up with her suitcase in his stateroom aboard the

Kiku, fully expecting to bunk together, Jonas quickly set her straight. “You’ve been having an

affair with Bud Harris; story at eleven!”

Maggie did not take this unexpected rejection well.

Then there was Terry. As if one angry woman on board wasn’t enough, Jonas had to deal

with Masao’s daughter, who openly blamed him for having the audacity to suggest they capture

the monster that had devoured her brother. Never mind the fact that it had actually been the

male Megalodon which had killed D.J.; as Mac reminded Jonas, neither facts nor logic held

any bearing on a woman, especially one in grief. For his part, Masao assured Jonas that Terry

would eventually come around, but the anger in her eyes told him a different story.

Mac was quick to point out that angry women came in threes; the third being a sixty-foot,

seventy-thousand-pound female shark.

Capturing that angry lady was going to be a bitch.

Terry and Masao filed into the galley, taking seats opposite DeMarco and Mac. Maggie and

her cameraman were situated in the back of the room. Frank Heller was the last to arrive.

Masao addressed the group, Maggie’s cameraman filming everything. “As you know, I’ve

appointed Jonas to head this expedition. If there’s anyone in the room who has a problem with

that, speak now.” He glanced at his daughter and Frank, neither of whom made eye contact.

“Jonas?”

Jonas stood. “Before I review my plan to capture the female, it’s important everyone knows

exactly what we’re dealing with.” He pointed to the anatomical chart. “Megalodon’s no ordi-

nary predator. It’s intelligent, it can sense vibrations in the water miles away, and it can detect

the electrical impulses of its preys’ beating hearts. Its nostrils are directional, allowing it to

target one particle of blood or urine in billions of particles of seawater—”

“Yes, we know all this,” Terry said. “We’ll all make sure we use the bathroom prior to hunt-

ing her down.”

Jonas shot her a look, then walked to the back of the room to a pneumatic drill. Loosening

its vise, he attached the female’s tooth to the hammer end, then held up a square piece of three-

inch titanium from a UNIS robot. “Megalodon teeth are among the hardest substances ever

created by nature. Each tooth is serrated, like a steak knife, designed to puncture whale bone.”

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Positioning the titanium plate beneath the tooth, Jonas flipped on the drill’s power switch.

When the air pressure indicator pointed to green, he hit the ON switch.

The tooth instantly punctured the titanium plate, its tip protruding from the other side. He

powered off the machine and returned to his seat.

“That was 10,000 pounds per square inch of pressure. The female’s jaw probably exerts

twice that force. Now imagine a mouth the size of a small bus filled with hundreds of these

teeth—a jaw big enough to swallow our minisub whole.”

In the back of the room, Maggie’s eyes widened as an idea came to her. “Jonas, let’s say we

wanted to film her capture underwater.”

Terry scoffed. “Are you suicidal or just stupid?”

“I’m talking to my husband, sweetheart.” She turned to Jonas, her cameraman filming the

exchange. “How large would a shark cage have to be in order to prevent the Meg from

swallowing it?”

Fred Barch stopped filming. “Hey, I’m not getting in any cage.”

“A shark cage would be crushed,” Jonas replied. “However a Lexan tube, say twelve feet

in diameter and cylindrical, would be too large and slippery for the female to expand its jaws

around.”

“I’m still not getting in any tube,” said the cameraman.

Maggie ignored him, jotting down notes.

“Let’s talk about something more important,” DeMarco said, pointing to the map. “How

are you going to find one fish in all that ocean?”

Jonas nodded. “It’s not going to be easy. We know she needs to feed … that her favorite

prey will be whales. Her eyes are too sensitive to surface during the day, which means she’ll do

her hunting at night, attacking whales close to the surface. Mac’s equipped the helicopter with

a thermal imager and monitor, which will assist us in spotting both the Megalodon and the

whale pods in the dark. I’ll be riding shotgun, using a pair of night-vision binoculars. The Meg’s

hide is white, making her easier to locate, so that helps. It also helps that whale carcasses float.

After a certain number of kills we should know how often she surfaces to feed and her average

speed—variables that will allow us to anticipate where she’ll surface.”

“Then what?” Frank Heller asked.

“Then we tag her.” Jonas held up a homing dart the size of a magic marker. “This trans-

mitter dart fits into the barrel of a high-powered rifle. If we can inject the homing dart within

twenty feet of the Megalodon’s heart, we’ll not only be able to track her, we should be able to

monitor her pulse rate.”

“What good will that do?” asked DeMarco.

“Once we tranquilize the Meg, the next step is to harpoon her. These are not whaling

harpoons, they’re hollow tubes with explosive back ends designed to inject a mixture of

pentobarbital and ketamine into the shark’s bloodstream. The pentobarbital will depress the

Meg’s cerebral oxygen consumption; the ketamine is more of a nonbarbiturate general anes-

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thetic. The Meg’s heart should slow significantly once the combination of drugs take effect,

however there may be an initial reaction that we need to watch out for. That’s why monitoring

her heart rate is so important.”

Mac looked up. “I’m a little fuzzy on the whole ‘initial reaction’ thing. Maybe you can

elaborate?”

Jonas nodded. “The pentobarbital could cause some initial hyperactivity.”

“What the hell does that mean?” asked DeMarco.

Mac slapped both palms on the table. “It means she’s gonna be one mighty pissed off fish

just before she goes into la-la land.”

Masao stared at the whale migration map. “Jonas, once we tranquilize the creature, how

will you bring it to the lagoon?”

“That’s the tricky part. The harpoon gun will be positioned at the Kiku’s stern. We’ll use

the steel cable that’s wrapped around the big winch as its line. The harpoon won’t remain

fastened very long in the Meg’s hide, so it’s important that we get the harness around her as

quickly as possible. The harness itself is basically a two-hundred-foot fishing net with inflatable

buoys attached every twenty feet along its perimeter. Inflate the buoys and the net should level

her out. As the Kiku tows the net, the forward momentum will channel seawater into her

mouth, forcing her gills to breathe. After that, it’s just a matter of towing her into the lagoon.”

Terry looked skeptical. “And how do you propose we secure the net around a thirty-ton

sleeping shark?”

“Once her heart rate slows, I’ll enter the water in the shallow water version of the Abyss

Glider and use the sub to align the net into position.”

Terry looked at Jonas, incredulous. “You’re going back in the water with that monster?

“I’ll be fine. Remember, we’ll be monitoring the Megalodon’s heart rate and I’ll be in

constant communication with the Kiku. If the Meg begins to awaken, her pulse rate will

increase rapidly as a warning. We can then inject her with more pentobarbital and ketamine.

Believe me, I have no desire to play the hero. The Meg will be knocked out long before I enter

the water in the glider.”

Jonas looked over his team. “There’s a sense of urgency here. The Coast Guard has been

patrolling the area over the last few nights with no dead whales reported. Tonight will mark

seventy-two hours since Mac and I located the whale carcass off the coast of Saipan. It’s vital

we locate another kill as soon as possible. The longer it takes, the wider the search perimeter

grows. And let’s not forget the Meg is pregnant, she’s feeding for two … or maybe twenty-two,

who knows how large a Megalodon litter is.”

Masao nodded. “Better get some rest; it could be a long night.”

Seven hours later, Maggie stood at the stern rail with her cameraman. The sun was

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beginning its descent along the western horizon, the shadow of the two-story-high A-frame

creeping across the main deck toward the bridge.

Jonas approached. “You said five o’clock. Let’s get this over with. I still have a lot to do

before we go on patrol.”

The cameraman clipped a dime-sized microphone to the lapel of Jonas’s jumpsuit. He

handed him the battery pack. “Slip that into your pocket, then count backwards from ten, I

want to do a quick sound check.”

Jonas counted while Maggie checked her hair again. The wind was wreaking havoc, despite

having used a third of the contents of her can of hair spray.

The cameraman framed the shot, the setting sun to his back, washing Maggie and Jonas in

its golden hue. “Looks great. Any time, Maggie.”

Maggie smiled, pouring on the charm. “So Jonas? How does it feel to be vindicated after

all these years?”

“It doesn’t change anything.”

“Of course it does. It changes the public’s perception about Jonas Taylor.”

“Meg or no Meg, two men died under my command. Their families have to live with that

every day.”

“It was an accident, Jonas. Life goes on.” She gazed at the sunset. “So beautiful, isn’t it?

Reminds me a little of our honeymoon.”

Jonas stared at her perfect profile. “What happened to us, Maggie?”

“Cut! This is an interview, Jonas, not a venue to air our dirty laundry.”

“Then why the honeymoon remark? Are you attempting to manipulate the public’s

perception of our marriage?”

She looked at her cameraman. “Fred, give us a minute.”

“Okay, but we’re losing the light.”

She waited until he walked out of earshot. “Jonas, we’re so beyond this.”

“Just answer the question.”

“Okay, if you really need to know. The man I fell in love with was a cocky Navy commander

with an ambition that matched my own. You knew you were the best, and that turned me on.”

“And after the accident?”

“The Jonas Taylor who surfaced from the Mariana Trench was bitter and angry. I came to

realize you weren’t the same man I fell in love with.”

“Shit happens, Maggie. People change.”

She touched his cheek, her eyes all business. “I don’t. But listen, life goes on, right? I put

up with a lot over these last seven years. You’re in a position now to either help my career or

destroy it, that’s up to you. You want to hold onto your anger, then do it, but you’re only

hurting yourself. Me? I’m a survivor. Bitterness doesn’t put food on the table or Emmys on my

bookshelf, only hard work can do that.”

Jonas nodded. “You’re right. I have been angry … it was me who pushed you away. At the

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same time you haven’t exactly been the supportive wife.”

“Agreed. We’re both at fault and this marriage is over. So, do you want to finish the

interview? Or would you rather burn our relationship to the ground?”

Jonas signaled the cameraman to return. “I’ll give you what you want, Maggie, only don’t

play me. I know it was you who fed that reporter the story about my dives into the trench. Trust

me, there are people in Washington who wouldn’t be happy if that story grew legs.”

She saw Terry Tanaka watching them from the starboard rail. Taking his hand, she held it

as she whispered in his ear. “Okay, Jonas. We’ll keep our relationship professional.”

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ATTACK

THE FULL MOON REFLECTED off the windshield of the helicopter, illuminating the interior

of the small compartment. Jonas was up front in the passenger seat, using the night vision

binoculars. Seated in back directly behind him was Terry, who was holding the high-powered

rifle and a backpack full of transmitter darts. If they could locate the Megalodon, it would be

Terry’s job to tag it, allowing the Kiku to track it and move into range of the harpoon gun.

Maggie was seated next to Terry, holding the heavy video camera mounted on a steady-

cam. The chopper only held four passengers, and she was not about to allow Fred Barch to hog

her glory.

Situated between Jonas and Mac was a monitor wired by cable to an Agema Thermovision

1000 infrared imager. Mounted below the helicopter was a small gyrostabilized platform that

held the thermal imager pod in place. The device was designed to detect objects in the water

by the electromagnetic radiation the object emitted. The internal temperature of a warm body

would appear on the monitor as a hot spot against the image of the cold sea. The warm-

blooded whales were easily detected; the Megalodon’s internal temperature would be slightly

cooler.

For nearly five hours, Mac had flown his chopper along a thirty-mile perimeter of ocean,

hovering two hundred feet above the black Pacific. They had located a dozen pods of whales

without seeing a trace of the Megalodon, and the initial excitement Jonas had felt was quickly

fading into boredom as he realized just how difficult their task was going to be.

“This is crazy, Jonas,” Mac shouted over his headphone’s mouthpiece. “It’s worse than

looking for a needle in a haystack.”

“How are we set for fuel?”

“Another fifteen minutes and we’ll have to turn back.”

Jonas refocused his ITT Night Mariner Gen III binoculars on the Pacific. The bifocal night

glasses penetrated the darkness by improving light amplification, turning the black sea a pale

shade of gray.

In the back seat, Maggie had drifted off to sleep. Terry watched her as she quietly unzipped

her backpack. From a hidden compartment she removed a 20 mm explosive bullet. Gently

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popping open the high-powered rifle, she swapped the lethal bullet for the tracking device.

Jonas spotted another pod of whales. “Mac, eleven o’clock. Looks like humpbacks. Let’s

follow them a while, then we’ll turn back.”

“You’re the boss.” Mac changed course to intercept the pod.

Jonas was growing worried. With each hour that passed, the search perimeter extended an

additional ten miles. Soon there would simply be too much ocean to cover, even with their

sophisticated tracking equipment.

Exhausted, the former submersible pilot felt himself becoming mesmerized by the moon-

light dancing across the ocean, barely noticing the white blur streak across his peripheral vision.

The moon had illuminated something below the surface. For a moment it had seemed to glow.

“See something, J.T.?”

“Huh? No … I don’t know—maybe.” He focused the night glasses on the whale pod,

locating three spouts. “I can make out two bulls, a cow and her calf … no, make that two cows,

five whales total. Get us on top of them, Mac.”

The helicopter hovered above the pod, keeping pace as the whales changed direction,

turning north.

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Jonas searched the sea to the left and right of the fleeing mammals; his heart suddenly

jumping in his chest, “There!”

Behind the pod, a white glow appeared, streaking beneath the surface like a giant lumines-

cent torpedo.

Terry leaned forward, staring at the infrared imager’s monitor. “What is it? Is it the Meg?”

“Affirmative.”

“What’s she doing?” Maggie asked, fixing the camera to her shoulder.

Jonas looked at Mac. “I think she’s stalking the calf.”

One hundred feet below the dark Pacific, a deadly game of cat and mouse was taking place.

The humpbacks had detected the hunter’s presence miles back, the mammals altering their

course repeatedly to avoid a confrontation. As the albino predator closed to intercept, the two

cows moved to surround the calf, the larger bulls taking positions at the front and rear of the

pod.

The Megalodon slowed, circling to the right of her quarry, sizing up her prey while marking

the position of the calf. Faster than the whales, the female darted in and out, testing the

reaction time of the two bulls.

As the shark crossed in front of the lead male, the forty-ton bull broke from the group and

made a run at her. Although the humpback whale possessed baleen instead of teeth, it was still

quite dangerous, able to ram the female with its enormous head. The male humpback’s charge

was sudden, but the Meg was far too quick, accelerating away from the cetacean before circling

back to taunt the bulls again.

“What do you see?”

Jonas was peering through the night glasses. “Looks like the lead bull is chasing the

Megalodon away from the pod.”

“Wait a minute, did you say the whale’s chasing the Meg?” Maggie chuckled. “I thought

this Megalodon of yours was supposed to be fearsome?”

“Sure, you can say that now,” said Mac. “Try hanging from a buoy, you’ll change your tune

real fast.”

Jonas turned to Terry. “You ready with that tracking dart?”

She nodded.

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Once more the pod altered its course, heading southeast in yet another attempt to evade

the relentless hunter. The Megalodon compensated, selecting an alternative approach, this

time targeting the massive bull guarding the rear. This angle presented a different problem for

the shark, which instinctively feared the humpback’s powerful fluke.

The Megalodon remained parallel with the bull, darting closer, pulling away, trying to

entice it to leave the pod and attack. The female grew bolder with each foray, snapping at the

humpback, once even biting at its enormous right pectoral fin.

The bull finally turned upon the Meg, chasing it from the rest of the pod. Only this time the

female retreated to the rear, doubling the bull’s distance from the safety of the pack.

As the male humpback turned to rejoin the others, the albino hunter circled back with a

frightening burst of speed and launched her 62,000 pounds at the retreating humpback’s

exposed flank. Her upper jaw hypertended away from her skull, her teeth sinking deep into the

whale’s lower belly close to the base of its fluke, the Megalodon holding on, shaking her head

like a pit bull.

The bull spasmed, the pain paralyzing. Writhing in agony, its wild contortions only served

to aid the Meg’s serrated teeth, which sawed cleanly through the humpback’s gushing grooves.

An agonizing, high-pitched moan reverberated from the bleeding rorqual as the albino

predator shook itself loose, gnashing upon a thousand-pound mouthful of blubber.

“What the hell was that noise?” yelled Mac.

“I can’t be sure,” said Jonas, the night glasses pressed against his eyes, “but I think the Meg

just attacked one of the bulls.”

“The pod’s moving off.”

“Forget the pod, Mac. Stay with the wounded bull.”

Hot blood gushed from the gaping wound as the crippled humpback feebly attempted to

propel itself forward with its massive lateral flippers.

The Megalodon circled below its struggling prey, allowing it to settle before launching its

second attack—this one even more devastating than the first.

Seizing the baleen-fringed edges of the dying creature’s mouth within its six-and-a-half-inch

fangs, the Meg ripped and tore apart an entire section of the humpback’s throat, whipping its

enormous head to and fro until a long strip of grooved hide and blubber peeled away from the

mammal’s belly like husk from a ripe ear of corn.

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Helpless and in agony, the tortured humpback slapped its fluke repeatedly along the bloody

surface as it wailed a death song of warning to its fleeing pod.

The Megalodon circled below the whale, waiting for it to die.

That’s when the female’s lateral line detected the heavy vibrations coming from the surface.

Maggie aimed her camera out her portside window. “Jonas, can you describe what’s

happening down there for my viewers?”

“Hard to tell, there’s so much blood in the water. What’s your thermal imager picking up,

Mac?”

“Just a lake of hot blood. It’s pooling along the surface so fast, it’s camouflaging every-

thing.”

“Bring us in closer,” Maggie yelled over her headphones.

Mac descended to fifty feet. “How’s that?”

Maggie focused through her viewfinder. “I still don’t see the Meg, just that damn whale.”

Terry aimed the barrel of her rifle out the open section on the starboard side of the cockpit.

She stood in her seat, looking down through the night scope. She could just make out the

Megalodon’s white hide, circling below the dying whale. Her finger slipped around the trigger.

She took a breath … this is for you, D.J.—

—as the blur suddenly disappeared. “Damn fish … it just went deep again. Mac, we need

to be lower.”

Mac adjusted the airship’s altitude, dropping another twenty feet.

Jonas’s heart raced. “Something’s not right. She wouldn’t just go deep, not with her kill so

close.”

“Probably scared her off,” said Maggie, shifting sides of the cramped backseat, dropping

to one knee beneath Terry’s gun. “Oh yeah, that’s much better. God, look at that whale bleed.

Now if only the guest of honor wasn’t such a wimp.”

Jonas felt sweat pouring down his face. “She has to sense the chopper’s vibrations. I wonder

if she perceives us as a threat? Mac, I’ve got a bad feeling about this. Take us higher.”

“Higher? But I—”

“Dammit, Mac, higher—now!”

The sea exploded in a bloody froth as the Megalodon launched its girth out of the water

at its challenger. The conical snout struck the helicopter’s undercarriage, shattering the

thermal imager, the midair collision sending the chopper caroming sideways.

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Jonas’s cockpit door popped open, his right foot losing its grip on the floorboard as the G-

force of the copter’s roll pushed him out, the seat belt all that was preventing him from falling

into the gaping mouth.

Maggie and Terry wrestled for position, the blonde reporter attempting to keep her camera

steady, the Asian beauty fighting to aim the rifle, her index finger inadvertently pulling the

gun’s trigger too soon.

The 20 mm shell just missed the Meg’s left pectoral fin, exploding as it struck the surface

below.

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The cabin spun, Mac yelling, “Come on!” as he clutched his control stick with both hands,

the ocean racing at him in his peripheral vision as he fought a thirty-degree down angle, the

airship and albino monster falling toward the water at the same rate.

A thunderous wallop blasted a hole in the sea as the sixty-thousand-pound behemoth

plunged sideways into the Pacific.

Mac felt his rotors catch air. He pulled the chopper out of its dive as a wall of water

smashed into the open right side of the cockpit, drenching the cabin and its stunned occupants.

Maggie screamed, believing they had crash-landed—until she realized the helicopter was

climbing.

Mac groaned with relief. “Goddamn, Jonas, I think I just shit my pants.”

Jonas fought to catch his breath. His limbs quivered, his voice abandoning him. After a

good minute, he forced the words out of his parched throat. “She’s … she’s a lot bigger than

I thought.”

Terry gritted her teeth, saying nothing.

Maggie stared at her. “What was that explosion?”

“I wouldn’t know.”

“Bullshit!”

Jonas reached back and grabbed Terry’s backpack. A quick search revealed two more 20

mm explosive shells. “Nice.”

Mac wiped seawater from his fuel gauge. “We’re low on fuel. I’ll radio the Kiku to

rendezvous. Hopefully we won’t have to ditch.”

The three passengers looked at him, the blood rushing from their faces.

Mac smiled to himself, not bothering to mention his reserve tank.

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HAWAII

Pearl Harbor, Oahu

THE KIKU WAS BERTHED next to the USS John Hancock, the 563-foot Spruance class

destroyer that had arrived in port earlier that morning. Under pressure from animal rights

activists, Commander McGovern had personally arranged the docking space for Masao

Tanaka’s vessel, while he secretly recruited a makeshift crew to report to Pearl Harbor for a

“special assignment.”

These actions were precipitated by Maggie’s helicopter footage of the Meg attack, which

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had aired nine days earlier on her network in San Diego and its NBC affiliates. The ratings

were through the roof—unfortunately for the budding blonde media star, the first sighting had

been the last.

A break had come four days earlier when a Coast Guard chopper spotted a gray whale

carcass floating thirty-seven miles west of the island of Oahu. The Kiku had spent the next

seventy-two hours patrolling the area, but there were no other sightings or kills.

Captain Barre stood on the Kiku’s stern deck, overseeing the installation of a harpoon gun

behind the ship’s massive A-frame. Jonas was with Mac, who was repairing a bad set of

batteries on the Abyss Glider-I. The sub was a smaller, sleeker version of the deep-sea craft

Jonas had piloted in the Mariana Trench. Designed for speed, the one-man vessel weighed a

mere 462 pounds, with the majority of that weight located in the instrument panels in the

Lexan nose cone.

“The AG-I was a prototype,” Mac explained. “It was only designed for depths up to two

thousand meters. This hull’s made of pure aluminum oxide, extremely sturdy, but positively

buoyant. She can move faster, turn on a dime, and has enough thrust to leap ten feet straight

out of the sea.”

Jonas inspected a small tank anchored by the vessel’s tail fin. “It would take a rocket to out-

jump the Meg.”

“Actually, it has one. That auxiliary tank you’re looking at is filled with hydrogen. Look

inside the nose cone; see that lockbox on the left side of the pilot’s control console? Inside that

box you’ll find a lever. Turn it a half-click counterclockwise, then pull it toward you, and it’ll

ignite the fuel.”

“How long of a burn?”

“Fifteen seconds, maybe twenty. Enough to free you if you ever got stuck in a fishing net

or kelp forest where using the prop would just get you tangled worse. Once the sub’s freed,

she’ll float topside, just like her deep water sister.”

“Hey, Jonas—check this out.” DeMarco was standing by the portside rail, pointing at two

tugboats pushing an antiquated nuclear submarine into an empty berth. A dozen crewmen

stood on the sub’s deck, proudly standing by with ropes to tie the ship off.

Jonas stared at the insignia SSN-571 as if seeing a ghost. “Son of a bitch, that’s the Nautilus.

I thought they put her out to pasture in Groton?”

Mac nodded. “It’s McGovern. He’s in way over his head, fighting a losing publicity battle

with the animal rights lovers. Bottom line: If you’re ordered to kill a fish, kill it with a legend.

The public loves the Nautilus. McGovern had her refit for one last sail into the sunset. His

orders are to make sure your shark stays clear of the Hawaiian Islands.”

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On September 30, 1954, the Nautilus became the United States Navy’s first commissioned

nuclear-powered ship. The submarine would shatter all submerged speed and distance records

and became the first vessel to travel beneath the ice floe to reach the geographic North Pole.

After serving the Navy for a quarter of a century, the famous submarine was eventually

decommissioned, but only after having logged nearly a half million miles at sea.

As Jonas watched, two officers showed themselves in the sub’s conning tower. “Holy shit.

It’s Danielson. Can you believe this?”

“My former CO? Yeah pal, I already knew. A friend stationed on Guam told me Danielson

volunteered when he heard you were involved. In fact, it was his suggestion to McGovern to

use that old tin can to go after the shark.”

As the Nautilus passed the Kiku, United States Navy Captain (Ret.) Richard Danielson

squinted in the sunlight, stealing a glance at Mac and the former deep-sea pilot.

“Hi, Dick, how’s it hanging?” muttered Mac, a smile plastered on his face.

“He probably heard you.”

“Danielson can kiss my big hairy ass. The guy not only destroyed your career, he locked you

up in a loony bin for three months. He should be publicly apologizing to you, not leading a

mission. This is strictly damage control.”

“Somehow I don’t think Danielson volunteered so he could apologize to me in person.

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Megalodon or not, the guy blames me for killing two men and tarnishing his record.”

“J.T., no living person on this planet would have done any different than you if they had

seen what we saw coming at us in that chopper. And I told that to Heller.”

“What’d he say?”

“Heller’s an asshole. If I had served with him in combat, he’d have been a casualty of

friendly fire.” Mac looked toward the stern. “When’s that big net of yours due to arrive?”

“This afternoon.”

“Good. Hey, you should’ve heard the old man ripping Terry a new one this morning. He

wanted her put ashore and she flatly told him no. I think she feels bad about what happened.”

“She’s a hellcat.”

“Speaking of which, what’s going on with you and the old lady? I saw you two eating

breakfast together.”

“I don’t know, Mac. I know she cheated on me but there’s a part of me that still loves her.”

“Yeah, and we know which part that is. Remember, this is the same woman who refused

to visit you during your stay at the mental hospital. Let her go, move on. Let this prick Harris

deal with her. Trust me, he’ll be bankrupt within a year.”

Jonas stared at the horizon, a line of storm clouds building in the distance. “Looks bad.

What do you think?”

“No hunting by chopper tonight, I’d say.”

Jonas nodded. “Hope the Meg agrees with you.”

Frank Heller stood on the pier, watching two crewmen secure the submarine’s thick white

bow lines, carefully lining the slack up along the deck of the Nautilus. Moments later, Captain

Richard Danielson emerged from the forward section of the hull. He waved at Heller, slapping

the “571” painted in white along the black conning tower before heading down the gangway.

The two men embraced. “Well Frank, what do you think of my new command?”

Heller shook his head. “I’m just amazed this old barge still floats. Why the hell would

McGovern assign a decommissioned sub to hunt down this shark?”

Danielson led him across the open gangway. “My idea. McGovern’s in a tough position.

The negative publicity’s killing him. But the Nautilus, she’s a different story. The public loves

this old boat. She’s like an aging war hero, going out with one last victory. McGovern went

crazy for the idea.”

“I don’t like it. You have no concept of what you’re dealing with, Richard.”

“I read the reports. One tube in the water and this overgrown shark is fish food.”

Frank was about to respond when he saw a tall officer exit the sub, a big smile planted on

his face.

“Denny?”

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“Hey, big brother.” Chief Engineer Dennis Heller came bounding down the ramp and bear

hugged Frank.

“Denny, what in the hell are you doing aboard this rusty tin can?”

Dennis glanced at Danielson. “I’m due to retire this year. Turns out I’m thirty hours shy

on active duty. I figured, why not serve them aboard the Nautilus with my first CO. Besides,

shore leave in Honolulu beats the hell out of Bayonne, New Jersey.”

“Sorry to disappoint you, Chief,” interrupted Danielson, “but all shore leaves are cancelled

until we fry this Megala … whatever Taylor calls it. By the way, Frank, I saw him on board your

boat this afternoon. Honestly, I can’t stomach the man.”

“Turns out he was right. Why not just leave it alone.”

“So he was right. His actions still killed two men. You and Shaffer were close, weren’t

you?”

“We went to the same high school; our families knew each other.” Heller lowered his voice.

“I should have never allowed you to talk me into pushing Taylor on that last dive.”

“He was fine.”

“He was exhausted, unfit to pilot that sub.”

“Those geologists wanted one last dive. The Pentagon was calling the shots. You and I …

we were just following orders.”

“Whose orders were you following when you pushed for his dishonorable discharge? Face

it, Richard, Jonas Taylor was the best deep-sea pilot in the Navy and we made him a scapegoat

to cover our asses.”

“You’re out of line, doctor.” Danielson’s neck was turning red.

“Whoa, Frank, Captain, take it easy.” Dennis moved between them. “Come on, Frank, I’ll

take you out for a quick bite. Skip, I’ll be back at sixteen-thirty hours.”

Danielson stood in silence as the two men headed into town, the first drops of rain echoing

against the outer steel casing of the antiquated nuclear submarine.

North Shore, Maui

The towering swells, rising into walls of water six to eight stories high, rolled on to the rocky

beach, carrying quarter-size chunks of whale blubber and debris. None of that seemed to

bother the thousands of onlookers who had braved rain, no parking, and a long hike down

private back roads to witness the Jaws-Maui leg of the annual Billabong XXL Global Big Wave

Contest. Spectators lined the shore and surrounding cliffs. Professional photographers were

strapped to the open doors of helicopters or the rails of boats bobbing and weaving just beyond

the break. A constant flow of competitors were being towed out by brave friends on jet-skis

while judges watched from their covered tents.

Pe’ahi, more commonly known as Jaws, was the biggest big wave surfing break in Maui. It

takes a variety of conditions to form big waves, the two most important factors being the

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distance a swell travels over deep water and the effect created when it hits the shallows. Jaws-

Maui possessed a uniquely shaped underwater ridge along with a dramatic depth change from

one-hundred-and-twenty feet to just under thirty, the combination creating waves that rose

into seven story giants. Because the waves are moving so fast, wave runners must tow the

surfers into the path of these powerful swells, with rides lasting as long as thirty seconds … and

wipeouts sometimes fatal.

The big-name competitors had been at it all day, Laird Hamilton, Pete Cabrinha, Dave

Kalama, and Buzzy Kerbox. Now, as the sun began to set, the youngsters moved in to try their

luck.

Twenty-two-year-old Wade Maller had been cutting waves since he was twelve. He was

joined by his younger brothers, Dylan, a defenseman on the University of New Hampshire ice

hockey team, and Austin, a freshman at Florida State. The Maller boys had only recently

begun training on the big waves, but with the Billabong finals in town the three brothers were

more than game, especially with an audience of spectators and cameras present.

Dylan pulled on his black and purple wet suit while Wade and Austin studied the break.

As he headed for the water with his board, the twenty-year-old circled around a group of girls

he recognized from his early teen years living in South Florida. Kelsey Danielle caught his eye

and gave him a quick wave, the knockout blonde jump-starting his heart. Confidence

brimming, he caught up with his brothers—only to see they had been joined by another surfer.

Surfing is a spiritual release, with everyone watching out for one another, especially when

it comes to riding the big waves. Rick Bohler was driven strictly by ego, which was why none

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of the big surfers on the circuit wanted anything to do with the gang banger, who was reputed

to carry a small arsenal of weapons in his van.

Austin was on his wave runner, waiting in the shallows. Wade pulled Dylan aside. “Bohler

is going to join us; just let it go.”

Dylan was about to object when the muscular heavily-tattooed twenty-seven-year-old

pushed his way into their conversation. “She’s out of your league, faggot.”

“Huh?”

“The blonde. Don’t even bother.” Bohler ran through the surf and paddled out to hitch a

ride on Austin’s tow rig.

“Asshole.” For a moment Dylan debated whether to leave. The skies were darkening, the

crowd beginning to thin. He saw Austin waving them out and knew Kelsey was watching …

Wade put his arm around his younger brother’s shoulder. “Forget him. Let’s just get one

good ride.”

Bellying up on his board, Wade dove into the surf, Dylan paddling behind him.

Minutes later, the three surfers and their Jet Ski tow were waiting beyond the breakpoint

for the next incoming set. They were a good half-mile out, in water more than one hundred

feet deep.

The female moved lazily along the sea floor, digesting the remains of her last meal. Nestled

within her swollen oviduct were live young, each six to seven feet long, weighing upwards of

five hundred pounds.

Almost sixteen months had passed since the violent act of copulation that had impregnated

the female. As embryos, her unborn offspring had been sheathed in a protective, transparent

capsule, nourished by an external placenta-like yolk sac attached to their gut. Over time these

capsules had ruptured, exposing the developing Megalodon sharks to a womb whose liquid

world was far different from the chemistry of the ocean. As the day of their birth rapidly

approached, their mother’s uterus steadily regulated their ion-water balance, preparing the

unborn young for their emergence into the sea.

For all its life-giving chemicals, the depths of the Challenger Deep were not equipped to

sustain a large colony of apex predators, so it was left to nature to balance the scales and thin

the herd. Undernourished, the unborn Megs at first subsisted on ovulated, unfertilized eggs.

But as they grew larger, the pups instinctively turned to cannibalism, the larger infants feeding

upon their smaller, less fortunate siblings.

What had begun as a brood of seventeen was now down to three.

For the big female, inhabiting the abyss meant longer gestation periods than her surface-

breeding ancestors had to endure, her internal anatomy delaying contractions until her pups

could achieve greater size. This evolutionary feature, designed to increase the pups’ rate of

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survival in the wild, was taking a toll on their mother, forcing the female to expend greater

amounts of energy during these final weeks of pregnancy.

Expending more energy meant an increase in feeding.

Since leaving her abyssal habitat, the female had stalked more than a dozen different whale

pods. Most of these earlier attempts had failed, but the Meg was learning, having succeeded

in her last three tries.

Failure or not, the whale pods around Hawaii were spooked by the hunter’s presence.

Haunting warning calls from humpbacks and gray whales reverberated through miles of ocean.

Almost as one, the pods began altering their migratory course, skirting west away from the

island chain. By morning of the third day, very few whales could be found in Hawaiian waters.

The Megalodon sensed the departure of its prey, but did not give chase. Gliding through

the thermocline, the boundary between sun-warmed waters and the ocean depths, it headed

toward the shallows, its senses enticed by a strange new stimulus.

The three Maller brothers and Rick Bohler waited impatiently for their first set of waves

to arrive. The sun was going down, the air had turned chilly, and they were losing their

audience as the weather began gusting.

Austin was the first to register the arriving swells. “Here we go. Wade and Bohler are first

up; Dylan I’ll be back for you in three minutes.”

The wave runner took off with the two surfers in tow, leaving Dylan behind.

The first wave struck the underwater ridge, channeling its force vertically into a majestic

deep blue mountain of water five-and-a-half stories high. Wade was on the inside as the fifty-

four-foot crest broke from right to left. He was in a zone, a mind space where his only focus

remained at the front of his board and a hundred feet down the line. Rooted within this tunnel

vision, he never saw what was happening behind him.

Bohler had just made his turn, pulling into the wave’s tube for what he knew would be an

“insane” ride. For a quick second, he stole a glance toward the beach, hoping to see the

blonde—his peripheral vision catching a bizarre wall of white water emerging on his right.

Never seeing the creature break through the wave, Rick Bohler surfed right into the

Megalodon’s open mouth!

The gangbanger was slingshot into darkness, smashing headfirst into an arching wall of

cartilage. He bounced across an undulating tongue as rows of serrated white teeth gnashed his

surfboard and tossed him about, spraying him with fiberglass splinters.

Disoriented, unable to catch a second to reason, Bohler was convinced he was underwater,

being pummeled by the wave’s fury, the lacerations now flailing at his wet suit and skin caused

by the sharp ridges of coral along the bottom.

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He attempted to swim against the current to reach the surface as the Meg’s opening and

closing jaws searched for his flesh, its hideous tongue pushing him towards chomping rows of

teeth … and suddenly, he knew!

Rick Bohler heard himself scream—as his existence was crushed into scarlet oblivion.

Austin Maller circled on his wave runner, searching for Bohler. As the roar of the breaking

wave passed, he heard shouts coming from the beach, the crowd waving frantically—pointing.

Turning, he saw the white dorsal fin—as tall as a small sailboat. Gunning the engine, he

raced after Wade.

Her appetite primed, the female circled the kill zone, gnashing her teeth as she swam.

Beneath her thick skin along either flank was a thin canal that contained sensory cells called

neuromasts. Mucus contained in the lower half of these two canals transmitted vibrations from

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the seawater to these sensitive cells, giving the predator a spectacular “vision” of her surround-

ings through echolocation.

Somewhere close was more prey, and her senses were isolating it.

Dylan Maller shivered from the cold, waiting for Austin to come back out and get him. The

swells were pushing him closer to the breakpoint, but were still moving too fast to catch.

What’s taking him so long?

Something struck his leg, causing him to look down.

“What the hell?” Small bits of bloody flesh clung to his surfboard. He felt vomit rising in

his throat and swallowed hard to keep it down.

Then he spotted the dorsal fin. It was impossibly tall and pure white … gliding straight for

him. Dylan pulled his legs onto his surfboard and froze, willing his muscles and nerves to be

still. Looking down, he saw his board was quivering in the water.

The Megalodon rose to the surface, the sheer mass of its moving girth creating a current

that towed the surfboard and its hijacked passenger out to sea. Beyond the dorsal, the upper

section of a half-moon-shaped tail lashed back and forth along the surface. Stretching higher

than Dylan’s head, it swatted past his face, missing him by mere inches.

Dylan felt something lifting him. His heart fluttered, anticipating the bloody mouth and

rows of fangs. But the shark was still swimming away from him; the pressure had been caused

by a swell. The next waves were coming in, fast and furious, and he needed to catch one.

He turned around, the monster already a good sixty feet behind him.

Go!

Dylan rolled onto his stomach and paddled, stroking as fast as he could, his pounding heart

threatening to explode from his chest.

The Megalodon turned, zeroing in on these new vibrations. The female’s peppered white

snout broke the surface thirty feet behind him, snorting sea like a Brahma bull.

Dylan slammed the left side of his face against the board, simultaneously gripping the outer

edges with his ankles as he plunged his arms into the water, double-stroking furiously. He

screamed as he registered the monster’s nostrils along the soles of his bare feet, and then he

fell over the edge of a cliff.

Plunging down the rolling mountain of water, Dylan somehow managed to remember to

pop up at the last moment on his exhausted legs, feet wide, crouching low. He reached back

with his right hand, the sixty-six-foot wave roaring at him like a tornado, its whitewater crest

twenty feet above his head, threatening to bury him beneath the sea floor.

Dylan cut hard to his right as the Megalodon burst through the wave, missing him by two

board lengths, its forward momentum sending it momentarily airborne. The surfer stole a quick

glance then dug in, looping over the monster’s head as the crashing wave consumed the beast

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and spit Dylan out its pipeline.

Refusing to be tossed, the trembling youth rode the dying wave another fifty yards. The ride

was over, the shoreline a good seventy yards away.

The dorsal fin surfaced, the shark searching for him.

He heard the outboard and turned to see his Austin on the jet-ski, older brother Wade

waving frantically, instructing him to get ready to jump.

Austin never slowed. With the monstrous shark less than twenty feet behind Dylan, he cut

across its path, racing past his brother, who leaped onto the wave runner’s tow rig—Wade

grabbing him before he could roll over the side.

The jet-ski shot through the shallows and straight onto the beach, the delirious crowd

chanting, “Dylan, Dylan, Dylan …”

Austin leaped off the wave runner and joined Wade, who was hugging Dylan, slapping him

on the back as the crowd swelled—parted by an official from the Billabong XXL Global Big

Wave Contest who presented him with a trophy, congratulating him on the ride of the day.

Dylan was exhausted, shaking with fear, the burst of adrenaline nearly forcing him to puke.

He caught himself as Kelsey appeared, a huge smile stretched across her face, tears in her blue

eyes as she hugged him.

“Are you okay?” she asked. “You scared the hell out of me.”

Dylan cleared his throat and took a breath. “Yeah … it’s cool.” Then, seeing his opening,

he flashed a crooked smile. “So Kelce, you doing anything tonight?”

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BATTLE AT SEA

THE COAST GUARD HELICOPTER hovered two hundred feet above the breaking swells.

Spotting the predator’s alabaster hide, the airship followed the female as she headed out to

sea, radioing her position to the naval base at Pearl Harbor.

Within minutes, both the Nautilus and the Kiku had put to sea, racing north past Mamala

Bay. By the time the Kiku reached Kaena Point, the incoming storm had reached gale-force

proportions, the raging night fully upon them.

Jonas was in the bridge when the door leading to the outer stairwell was wrenched open

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against the howling wind and Mac slipped into the dry compartment, dressed in a yellow

slicker. He slammed the hatch closed behind him.

“Copter’s secured. So’s the net and harpoon gun. We’re in for a rough one.”

“This may be our only chance. If we don’t tag the female before she heads into open water,

we may lose her for good.”

They joined Masao, who was standing over a crewman seated at the sonar console. He

looked grim. “The Coast Guard broke off its pursuit because of the weather.” Masao turned

to the crewman. “Anything on sonar yet, Nash?”

Without looking up, the technician shook his head. “Just the Nautilus.”

Everyone grabbed a console as a twenty-foot swell lifted and tossed the research vessel

from one side to the other.

Captain Barre stood at the helm, his sea legs giving naturally with the roll of his vessel.

“Hope nobody had a big dinner. This storm’s gonna be a bitch.”

Life on board the world’s first nuclear-powered submarine was relatively calm as the ship

entered Waimea Bay one hundred feet below the raging storm. Though refitted several times

during its life span, the sub still possessed a single nuclear reactor that created the superheated

steam necessary to power its twin turbines and two shafts. It was an antiquated system, far from

battle-ready.

Commander Danielson, too, felt far from battle-ready, but the semi-retired naval man was

more than game. “Anything on the sonar, Ensign Raby?”

The sonar man was listening with his headphones while watching his console. The screen

was designed to give a visual representation of the difference between the background noise

and a particular bearing. Any object within range would appear as a light line against the green

background. Because they were searching for a biologic, sonar was actively pinging the area

every three minutes, Raby looking for return signals. “Lots of surface interference from the

storm. Nothing else yet, sir.”

“Very well, keep me informed. Chief of the Watch, what’s our weapons status?”

Chief Engineer Dennis Heller, six years younger than his brother Frank, yet still one of the

oldest members of the sub’s makeshift crew, looked up from his console. “Two Mark 48 AD-

CAP torpedoes ready to fire on your command, sir. Torpedoes set for close range, as per your

orders. A bit tight, if you don’t mind my saying, sir.”

“Has to be, Chief. When sonar locates this monster, we’ll need to be as close as possible to

ensure an accurate solution.”

“Captain Danielson!” The radioman leaned back from his console. “Sir, I’m receiving a

distress call from a Japanese surface vessel. Hard to make out, but it sounds as if they’re being

attacked.”

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“Navigator, plot an intercept course, ten degrees up on the fair-weather planes. If this is

our friend, I want to kill it and be back at Pearl in time for last call at Grady’s.”

The Japanese ship rolled with the massive swells, rain, sea, and wind pelting her crew

mercilessly. For two days the storm front had chased the ship east, bringing it into Hawaiian

waters. The captain had no desire to be this far from home, but his ship was riding low in the

water and he couldn’t risk his crew … or their valuable cargo.

The vessel was a whaler, its hold dangerously overloaded with its illegal catch—the

carcasses of eighteen gray whales. Two more had been lashed to the port side of the ship with

a cargo net.

A pair of lookouts held on to the main mast, disoriented by weather and darkness. The two

sailors had been assigned the hazardous duty of making sure the valuable whale blubber

remained firmly secured during the storm. Unfortunately for the exhausted men, their

searchlight hardly penetrated the maelstrom. Sporadic flashes of lightning afforded them their

only real vision of their precious cargo.

Flash. The ocean dropped from view as the ship rolled to starboard, the cargo net groaning

with its keep. The sailors hung on as the poorly ballasted vessel rolled back to port.

Flash. The sea threatened to suck them under, the net momentarily disappearing beneath

the waves.

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Flash. The vessel rolled again to starboard, the net reappearing. The men gasped—a

massive white triangular head had risen from the sea with the cargo!

Darkness returned as the whaler rolled back to port, its lookouts blind in the storm. Silent

seconds passed before a fork of lightning lit the sky and the horrible head reappeared, its

mouth bristling razor-sharp teeth.

The crewmen screamed, but the storm muted the sound. The senior mate signaled to the

other that he would find the captain.

Flash. The unimaginably large jaws were tearing at the carcass now, the head leaning

sideways against the rolling vessel, its teeth gnashing at the whale blubber.

The ship rolled to starboard once more. The senior mate struggled to make it below deck,

squeezing his eyes shut against the gale while holding tight to the rope ladder. He could lower

himself only a rung at a time as the vessel rolled back to port … and kept rolling!

He opened his eyes, his stomach churning as the sea kept coming, an immense force pulling

the ship onto its side and into the water.

“Captain, the whaler is two hundred yards ahead.”

“Thank you, Chief. Take us to periscope depth.”

“Periscope depth, aye, sir.”

The sub rose as Danielson pressed his face against the rubber housing of the periscope and

stared into darkness. The scope turned night into shades of green, but the storm and rolling

waves severely reduced visibility.

Flash. The raging Pacific was illuminated, and for an instant Danielson caught the silhou-

ette of the whaler lying on its side. “They’re sinking. XO, contact the Coast Guard. Where’s

their nearest cutter?”

“The only surface ship within twenty miles is the Kiku.”

The sonar operator called out, “Skipper, there’s something else out there, circling that

ship.”

Robert Nash held the headset tightly against his ears, verifying the message once more.

“Captain Barre, we’re receiving an emergency call from the Nautilus. A Japanese vessel is

sinking, twelve miles to the east on heading zero-eight-one. They say there may be survivors

in the water, but no other surface ships are in the area. They’re requesting immediate

assistance.”

Masao looked at Jonas. “The Meg?”

“If it is, we don’t have much time.”

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“Get us there quickly, captain.”

The Japanese whaler lay on her port side, the buoyant vessel refusing to sink as she rose

and fell with the twenty-foot swells. Within the bowels of the ship, eleven men struggled in

darkness to escape a chamber of death in which they could not tell which way was up. The cold

ocean hissed from all directions, battering the keel, searching for a way inside the battened-

down ship.

Below the waves the Megalodon tore at the remains of the whale meat lashed to the cargo

net. It was her physical presence in great part that supported the vessel from below, keeping

the dying ship afloat.

The senior lookout had been thrown overboard when the ship had toppled. Somehow he

had managed to climb back on board, and now he struggled to hold on. From within, he heard

the screams of his shipmates. Kicking open one of the sealed hatches, he shone his flashlight

inside. Four crewmen crawled out from below, joining him on the tilting main deck.

“Skipper, I can hear ambient sounds,” reported the Nautilus’s sonar tech. “There are men

in the water.”

“How far away is the Kiku?”

“Six minutes,” Chief Heller called out.

Danielson tried to think. What could he do to distract the Megalodon, keep the monster

from the survivors? “Chief, continuous pinging, loud as you can. Sonar, watch the creature, tell

me what happens.”

“Continuous ping, aye, sir.”

Ping … ping … ping.

The metallic gongs rattled through the hull of the Nautilus, the deep throb of the

reverberations radiating acoustically through the sea.

The deafening pings reached the female’s lateral line in seconds. The dense sound waves

overloaded her senses, sending her into a rage—an unknown creature was challenging the

female for her kill.

Abandoning the whale meat still entangled within the cargo net, the Megalodon circled

below the sinking whaler, her head and lateral line throbbing. Descending beneath the ship,

the shark homed in on the source of the annoying vibrations.

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“Captain Danielson, I’ve got a bearing on the biologic. Six hundred meters and closing.

You’ve definitely got its attention.”

“Chief, ready a firing solution.”

“Four hundred meters and closing.”

“Chief?”

“I’ve got a temporary solution, sir, but the explosion could harm the crew of that whaler.”

“Two hundred meters—”

“Helm, change course to zero-two-five, twenty degrees down-angle on the planes. Dive the

boat to eight hundred feet; make your speed fifteen knots. Let’s put some ocean between this

fish and that ship.”

The sub accelerated in a shallow descent, the Megalodon in pursuit. The female measured

less than half the Nautilus’s length, and the submarine, at three thousand tons, easily out-

weighed her. But the female was faster and could outmaneuver its adversary; moreover, no

adult Megalodon would allow a challenge within its domain to go unanswered.

The female accelerated at the sub’s steel hull like a berserk sixty-foot locomotive.

“Seventy meters … Thirty meters … brace for impact!” The sonar man ripped off his

headset.

Whomp!

The thirty-ton creature struck the Nautilus along its starboard flank, the solid impact

crushing several steel plates while rolling the sub hard to port. The collision sent crewmen

hurtling from their posts. The power died, darkness momentarily taking the sub until red

emergency lights flickered on.

Powerless, the sub listed at a forty-five-degree angle.

The Megalodon circled, measuring her challenger. The collision had caused a painful

throbbing in her snout. The female shook her head, several broken teeth falling out. In time

they would be replaced by those lying behind them in reserve.

Captain Danielson felt warmth seep into his right eye. “All stations report,” he yelled,

wiping the blood from his forehead.

Chief Heller was the first to call out. “Engine room reports flooding in three compartments,

sir. Reactor is off-line.”

“Radiation?”

“No leaks found.”

“Batteries?”

“Batteries appear functional and are on-line, Captain, but the stern planes are not

responding.”

“Son of a bitch.” Danielson was fuming … how could he have allowed a fish to cripple his

boat? “Sonar, where’s the creature now?”

“Circling, sir. Very close.”

“Skipper, damage control reports one screw is out, the other should be on-line within ten

minutes. Emergency batteries only, sir.”

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“Torpedoes?”

“Still ready, sir.”

“Flood torpedo tubes one and two sonar, I want a firing solution.”

The hull plates groaned … followed by a bizarre scratching sound.

Danielson looked around, baffled. “Raby, what the hell is that noise?”

The sonar man looked up, fear in his eyes. “Skipper, I think the Megalodon’s attempting

to bite through our hull.”

The Kiku arrived at the last known coordinates of the Japanese vessel, but without the

support of the Meg pushing from below, the ship had gone under without a fight.

Jonas and Mac, wearing life jackets and secured to the main deck by life lines around their

waists, stood at the stern rail by the harpoon gun. Mac manned a searchlight while Jonas held

the rifle loaded with the tracking dart, his right arm looped inside a life ring secured to the rail.

They held on as the Kiku rose again and fell, the thirty-foot swells threatening to send both

men head first into the sea.

“There!” Jonas pointed to starboard. Two sailors clung to what was left of the whaler’s

mast.

Mac aimed the light, then called Barre on his walkie-talkie. “Two men in the water, fifty

yards astern.”

Jonas handed the rifle to Mac, then tossed the life ring toward the sailors. With the sea

breaking in peaks and valleys and the Kiku bucking like a wild bronco, he could not tell

whether the men could even see the flotation device, let alone reach it.

“Forget it, J.T., you’ll never reach them!”

Jonas continued scanning the surface as the bow dropped thirty feet, another swell rising

ten yards away. They rose again and Jonas saw the beacon of light flash on the men. One was

waving.

Retrieving the floatation device, he untied the rope around his waist and connected it to

the life ring’s rope, doubling its length.

“What are you doing?”

As the bow dropped, Jonas looped his right arm through the life ring and placed one foot

on one the rungs of the rail. When the ship rose again, he leaped into the maelstrom with all

his might. Propelled by the rising deck, he launched high into the air, falling beyond the next

incoming swell.

Cold water shocked his body, driving the breath from his chest, sapping his strength. He

rose with the next wave but was unable to see anything, then swam as hard as he could in the

direction he prayed was correct, the life ring encumbering his progress but keeping him afloat,

the wind howling in his ears.

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Without warning, Jonas found himself falling into a valley between two swells. Swimming

was not an option: he was being hurled up and down mountains of water. Rolling onto his

back, he kicked with his legs and stroked with his left arm, his heart pounding with the effort.

The Meg couldn’t tell if the creature was alive, its piercing vibrations having ceased. She

circled back, attempting to gnaw on the object, taste buds located in her rostrum telling her the

strange fish was inedible.

And then the Meg detected vibrations along the surface … the floundering movements

accompanied by the rapid heartbeats of prey.

“It’s moving off, skipper. She’s heading back to the surface.”

“Engines back on-line, Captain,” reported Chief Heller. As if in response, the Nautilus

leveled out.

“That’s my girl. Helm, bring us around; make your course zero-five-zero, up ten degrees

on the planes. Take us to four hundred feet. Chief, I want a firing solution on that monster. On

my command, start pinging again. When she descends to attack, we’ll hit her with both

torpedoes.”

Heller looked worried. “Sir, engineering warns the ship can’t withstand another collision.

I strongly suggest we return to Pearl and—”

“Negative, Chief. We end this now.”

Jonas let out a yell as something grabbed him by his collar and hung on.

A Japanese sailor pulled Jonas onto the fallen mast and sputtered something incompre-

hensible, the man terrified.

Jonas looked around—the second sailor was gone.

He felt a strong tug on the life ring; Mac and his men were pulling him back.

Taylor instructed the sailor to hang on to the floatation device. Seconds later they were

dragged backward along the violent surface toward the Kiku.

The Meg locked in on the electrical impulses generated by the two men’s beating hearts.

It could smell blood in the water, their floundering movements rendering them easy prey—

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Ping … ping … ping—

Incensed, the albino monster broke off her attack, descending on an intercept course with

the Nautilus.

“Here she comes, skipper. Six hundred meters and closing quickly.”

“Chief Heller, do we have a firing solution?”

“Aye, sir, we do.”

“On my command …”

“Three hundred meters.”

“Steady, gentlemen.”

“One hundred and fifty meters.”

“Let her come closer …”

“Skipper, she’s changing course.”

Danielson ran to the console, sweat mixed with the blood dripping down his face. “Where

is it?”

Sonar was bent over, cupping his ears, trying to hear. “She went deep. I can barely hear her.

Wait—Oh shit, she’s coming up below us.”

“Evasive maneuvers! Hard to starboard, all ahead full.”

The crippled submarine lurched forward, struggling to reach a speed above ten knots—as

the Megalodon rose from below, her snout striking the hull at twenty knots. This time the

casing gave way, spreading a gap between the steel plates, venting the engine room to the sea

and rupturing the submarine’s aft ballast tanks.

Seaman Anthony Gonzalez tumbled backwards, the engineer’s head slamming hard against

a control panel, knocking him unconscious.

Lieutenant Peter Suarez found himself pinned under a collapsed bulkhead, his left ankle

caught. As the engine room filled with water, he managed to free himself and crawl up into the

next compartment, sealing the watertight door behind him seconds before the sea could rush

in.

“Damage report!”

“Engine room’s flooded. I can’t raise—”

A loud wail was followed by flashing red lights.

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“Core breach,” Heller yelled. “Someone’s got to shut it down.”

“Helm, high-pressure air into the ballast tanks, put us on the ceiling. Dennis?”

“On my way.” Chief Heller ran through a tilting maze of chaos. He squeezed past crewmen

attempting to staunch the flow of seawater spraying from a thousand leaks. At least half of the

electrical consoles looked down.

He found Lieutenant Suarez outside the engine room frantically throwing switches,

shutting down the nuclear reactor.

Heller joined him, shutting off the alarm. “Report, Lieutenant.”

“Reactor’s gone, but at least we averted a meltdown. Everyone and everything aft of the

engine room is underwater.”

“Radiation?”

The officer looked at his friend. “Denny, this ship’s over forty years old. We’ve lost the

integrity of the hull, the steel plates are falling off like shingles. We’ll drown before any

radiation kills us.”

Jonas and the Japanese sailor were hauled out of the sea and onto the Kiku’s stern deck.

Frank Heller escorted the whaler’s lone survivor to sickbay, Mac leading Jonas up to the

bridge.

Terry Tanaka wrapped a blanket around him as he entered the command center. “Diving

in the sea like that—are you insane?”

“Technically, Mac and I did spend three months together in a mental ward.”

She shot Jonas a look to kill. “Don’t ever do that again.”

“Terry, quiet,” Masao called out. “We’re receiving a distress call from the Nautilus.”

Bob Nash cupped his ears, trying to hear. “They’re surfacing. No power … major breach.

They need our assistance immediately.”

Captain Barre barked orders to change course.

The Kiku turned, fighting against the relentless swells.

Anthony Gonzalez had regained consciousness. The engineer’s face was pressed hard

against the watertight door where a small pocket of air remained. The chamber was bathed in

red emergency lighting. Blood gushed from his forehead.

As the Nautilus rose, debris began seeping out of the gap in the hull and into the Pacific.

The Megalodon ascended after the sub, snapping its jaws at anything that moved. Smelling

Gonzalez’s blood, the Meg jammed her head into the engine room breach, separating the

already loose steel plates, enlarging the gap in the hull significantly. Her white hide illuminated

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the dimly lit flooded compartment, catching the engineer’s attention.

Holding his breath, he ducked underwater and looked down.

The monster’s ten-foot-wide jaws opened and closed below him, the upper jaw pushing

forward and away from the creature’s head like something out of a 3-D horror film, the

hideous triangular teeth less than five feet away.

Gonzalez felt his body being sucked into the vortex. He surfaced and tore at the door, his

screams muffled by the rising sea. Unable to escape, he chose an alternative death, ducking his

head underwater, inhaling the salt water deep into his lungs, struggling to kill himself before

the mouthful of teeth could reach him.

The female inhaled the heaving body into her vacuous gullet, crushing and swallowing her

prey in one gulp. The warm blood sent her into a renewed frenzy. She shook her head, freeing

herself from the opening, then circled the Nautilus again as its bow burst through the surface.

“Abandon ship! All hands, abandon ship!” Captain Danielson barked his orders over the

ship’s intercom as the Nautilus tossed hard to starboard against the incoming swells.

Three hatches exploded open, releasing the crew. Pink phosphorescent flares pierced the

blackness. Three yellow rafts inflated instantaneously and were lashed to the side of the boat.

Survivors rushed to board, struggling to maintain their balance against the raging sea. The Kiku

was close, her spotlight now guiding the rafts.

Danielson was in the last life raft. Bolts of lightning lit the seascape as he looked back at

the Nautilus. Within seconds, the submarine was overcome by the waves. Her bow rose, only

to be swallowed by another swell which drove the ship toward her final resting place at the

bottom of the Pacific.

Flash. The first raft reached the Kiku. Fifteen men scrambled up a cargo net draped along

her starboard side. A swell slammed against the ship, lifting the research vessel before

dropping it thirty feet.

Flash. The force of the wave tossed some of Danielson’s crew back into the sea. Like insects

they scrambled to reach the net, climbing once again.

Jonas aimed the spotlight into the swell, locating a seaman.

It was Dennis Heller.

Frank saw his younger brother struggling to stay afloat less than fifteen feet from the Kiku’s

cargo net. He tossed a ring buoy as the second raft closed in from behind.

Dennis grabbed at the life preserver and held on as his brother pulled him toward the Kiku.

The survivors in the second raft were already scaling the cargo net, the last group now within

ten feet of the ship.

Dennis reached the net and began climbing. He was halfway up when his shipmates from

the third raft joined him.

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Frank Heller held on to the starboard rail, one hand holding the metal pipe, the other

extending toward his brother, now only two body-lengths away. “Denny, give me your hand!”

They touched momentarily—just as another swell washed over the starboard rail, battering the

ship.

Heller panicked; Denny was gone. He searched the dark sea, littered with flailing seamen.

Flash—

The albino creature’s head rose out of the swell, grasping Dennis Heller in its jaws.

“No, no!” Frank screeched at the monster, its massive throat wobbling as it chomped down

upon his brother’s gushing remains.

Another swell rolled over the albino devil, and it was gone.

Having witnessed the scene, Danielson and the other men still holding onto the net climbed

with reckless abandon.

The Meg reappeared, the bloody remains of Dennis Heller still shredded within its front

row of teeth as it rose with the next thirty-foot swell which washed over the cargo net,

delivering the shark to the bounty of human morsels floundering along the side of the Kiku.

The wave lifted Danielson away from the net. He kicked and strained to reach the

starboard rail—screaming as he turned to see the Megalodon’s open mouth right behind him—

The searchlight ignited over his head, Mac directing the intense beam of light at the shark’s

left eye, scorching the organ’s sensitive ocular tissue like a laser.

The monster reeled sideways into the sea, its assault on Richard Danielson and the

Nautilus’s survivors terminated.

The captain and his men climbed over the rail and collapsed onto the teetering deck where

they were met by the Kiku’s crew and led inside the ship’s infrastructure.

Frank Heller remained on his knees by the starboard rail, his eyes tightly clenched, his frail

body trembling.

Jonas reached for him, only to have the physician push him away.

Dragging himself off the deck, the physician cried out into the night, his words deadened

by the wind. “You’re dead, monster, you hear me? You … are … dead!”

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LOST & FOUND

THE MEG DISAPPEARED. No telltale whale carcasses, no sightings by chopper … nothing.

Many speculated the creature had gone deep … never to return.

Nine members of the Nautilus’s crew were missing, along with fourteen sailors from the

Japanese whaler. A ceremony honoring the dead had taken place at Pearl Harbor. Two days

later, Captain Richard Danielson re-retired from the Navy.

Commander Bryce McGovern was in the hot seat. Who had authorized the United States

Navy to hunt the Megalodon? Why had McGovern selected the Nautilus to complete the

mission, knowing the decommissioned submarine was far from battle-ready? The families of

the deceased were outraged, an internal investigation ordered. Many believed Commander

McGovern would be the next naval officer to be “retired.”

Frank Heller was a raging bull; his hatred for the Megalodon all-consuming. He informed

Masao he was through, stating that he had his own plans for the “white devil.” After the

ceremony in Oahu, he flew home to San Francisco, and no one had heard from him since.

Days turned into a week; the weeks into a month. Leaving Hawaiian waters, the Kiku

continued its trek east toward California, not so much because Jonas believed the Megalodon

would be enticed by the thousands of whales migrating along the coast—he simply wanted to

end the voyage and go home.

Maggie rode the wave of high ratings for about a week. But as the empty days mounted and

the futility of their mission became apparent her producers back in San Diego cut back her

broadcasts from once a day to once a week before they finally terminated the project.

Jonas learned she was leaving when he found her waiting by the helipad with her camera-

man, her suitcase packed.

“So, this is it, huh?”

She nodded. “We live and die with each new news cycle.”

“I meant our marriage.”

“I already filed for divorce; Bud’s attorneys are handling it. You can have the house, we’re

upside-down on the mortgage. Bud already moved my stuff out.”

“He’s an efficient guy.”

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“Don’t be bitter, Jonas. We had a nice run. Thankfully, there are no rug-rats to complicate

our lives.”

“That’s because you never wanted any.” He looked to the east as the chopper approached.

“What about Bud? Does he want kids?”

“Bud wants me.” She noticed Terry watching from the bridge. “She likes you.”

“Who? Terry?”

“Don’t act so innocent. I saw the two of you playing darts the other day. You were smiling.

That’s the first time I’ve seen you smile in seven years.”

The thunder of the approaching chopper grew louder.

Maggie stood. Reaching up to Jonas, she kissed him hard on the lips, leaving behind a trace

of Vaseline. “Bye.”

He watched her board the helicopter with the cameraman and then she was gone.

When he turned, Terry was by his side. “Will you miss her?”

“We’ve both moved on.” He looked around, realizing the Kiku’s chopper wasn’t there.

“Where’s Mac?”

“He flew my father to the institute to meet with JAMSTEC. The opening ceremony is in

two days and there’s still a lot to be done.”

“He left you behind?”

“I told him we were involved in a serious dart tournament.” She slipped her hand in his. “I

think it’s time we upped the stakes.”

Tanaka Oceanographic Institute

Monterey, California

The crowd was sparse, numbering less than a hundred—no doubt reflecting the long odds

of the public ever seeing the Megalodon captured. Having committed another seven million

dollars of JAMSTEC money to finish the lagoon, Dr. Tsukamoto and Dr. Simidu now feared

that they had made a mistake that would probably cost them their jobs.

Both men kept smiles on their faces as the ceremony began.

Masao Tanaka stood by a podium set up in the southern end of the arena. “Dear friends,

thank you for coming. You see before you the culmination of a dream. Whether the D.J.

Tanaka lagoon one day harbors a prehistoric shark or gray whales seeking a habitat to birth

their young, this facility honors my son, D.J. Tanaka, who dedicated his life to the advancement

of the marine sciences.”

Masao removed a small gold hammer hanging from a ribbon around his neck and struck

a ceremonial gong standing on the podium.

With a thunderous clap, the towering eighty-foot-high steel doors located at the end of the

canal were opened, venting the lagoon to the Pacific Ocean.

Within minutes the empty tank had become a glorious blue lake. For several minutes the

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host and his guests simply stared at the ebbing and flowing waters, and then the press turned

on Masao, engaging in a media version of a feeding frenzy.

“Mr. Tanaka, it’s been a month since the Megalodon was last seen. Many experts believe

the creature has returned to deep water. What are the Institute’s plans?”

“As long as we’re funded, we’ll continue the search.”

“A lot of people have died, including your own son. If you could turn back time, what would

you have done differently?”

“You cannot control karma, it is either good or bad. Our mission in the trench was

honorable, our karma bad. Perhaps it will change, I don’t know.”

As the barrage of questions continued, one news reporter turned to face his cameraman.

“And so the Tanaka Lagoon opens. The real question now—where is its 60,000-pound guest

of honor? In Monterey, Joel Van Egbert, CNN Headline News.”

Turtle Bay, Bahia Tortugas

Baja California, Mexico

The coastal outpost of Bahia Tortugas and the cove known as Turtle Bay lie just south of

Punta Eugenia, the elbow in the middle of Baja below California’s west coast. More accessible

by sea than land, Bahia Tortugas is one of the few places for hundreds of miles where diesel

fuel and gasoline can be purchased, rendering this protective out-of-the-way cove a common

rest stop for boaters traveling up and down the Baja coast.

Jason Frost had gotten lost. Driving from Bakersfield, California to his best friend’s

wedding in Los Cabos, the forty-two-year-old book store employee had made the mistake of

asking for directions in broken Spanglish from a gas station attendant in Guererro Negro. He

had driven forty-five miles south, then a hundred and fifteen miles west off of the Baja

Highway when he found himself on a narrow road at ten-thirty at night, utterly lost.

Exiting his jeep to pee, he could hear the ocean close by. Deciding it best to rest here for

the night, Jason grabbed his sleeping bag, his cell phone, and the remains of a taco he had left

from lunch and made his way on foot down to Turtle Bay.

Jason opened his eyes. The predawn sky was gray, the sun still an hour away. Waves lapped

along the shoreline, teasing him to close his eyes again.

Then he heard the sound—a deep, bellicose groan that he knew could not be human.

Climbing out of the sleeping bag, he stood on the dunes facing the ocean, his heart pounding

with excitement.

They were laid out along the coastline of Turtle Bay like the black keys on a piano. He

counted thirteen whales and stopped, then ran down to the shallows to inspect the dying

mammals.

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He could find no wounds nor reason the cetaceans would have beached themselves en

masse—and yet he knew the reason … the question was how to get the most bang from his

buck.

Searching for a signal on his cell phone, he found the phone number of the television studio

in San Diego.

“Yes, this is Dr. Jason Frost, and I’m a … an amateur marine biologist. I need to speak with

Maggie Taylor.”

San Diego

Maggie Taylor felt her blood pressure rising as she waited impatiently for Fred Henderson

to get off his phone. Finally, she stood over her producer’s desk and snatched the receiver out

of his hand. “He’ll have to call you back,” she said into the mouthpiece, and hung up.

“Maggie, what the hell do you think you’re doing? That was an important call—”

“Important my ass, you were talking to your bookie.”

“All right, you have my undivided attention. Speak.”

“The whale beaching in Baja was my story. Why’d you give it to David Lindahn?”

“First, because he speaks Spanish; second because he was already in Baja and this Frost

fellow was putting the story out to other news agencies so we had to move fast.”

The station manager put his feet up on his desk. “I know you want to get back into the

game … so wow me.”

“What if I got you underwater footage of the Meg, I mean the real McCoy, scary as hell.”

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“I’m listening.”

“I spent all day going through Jonas’s office. Did you know these Megs used to proliferate

along the California coast? Jonas has boxes filled with small fossilized teeth from a local spot

he labeled an ancient Megalodon nursery.”

“And this is important why?”

“Because the female’s pregnant! Do you ever watch your own news features, Fred?”

“Get back to the underwater shots.”

“I think the Megalodon is working its way back to this ancient nursery to give birth. What

if I was there, waiting for it … in a shark tube.”

“You’re nuts.”

“Just listen to what I have to say.”

For the next ten minutes she briefed her station manager about her plan to film the

Megalodon.

When she was through, Henderson leaned back in his leather chair. “You’ve got some set

of balls, lady, I’ll say that for you. Okay, I’m sold. Tell me what you need.”

Bud was reading the paper in his Mercedes convertible when Maggie opened his door,

climbed onto his lap and buried her tongue in his mouth.

“Bud, he loved it. We called the network and they agreed to back me on everything … the

equipment, the crew—everything but the boat.”

“Which is why you need me.”

“No, Bud Harris. I need you because I love you … because you’re my present and future.

You and I are going to be the biggest power couple in California. This story makes me a star

… the next Katie Couric. And you’ll be there with me. Bud Harris, executive producer.”

Bud smiled, enjoying the con. “Okay, Maggs, just tell me what you want.”

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THE CANYON

SITUATED LESS THAN TWO HUNDRED yards from the open steel doors of the Tanaka

Lagoon’s canal and fanning out over sixty miles of sea floor, the Monterey Bay Submarine

Canyon runs deeper than the Grand Canyon, possessing channels that plunge 11,800 feet.

An anomaly of nature, this unique underwater geology was created by the subduction of

the North American plate. Originally located in the vicinity of Santa Barbara, the entire

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Monterey Bay region was pushed ninety miles northward over millions of years, carried along

the San Andreas fault zone on a section of granite rock known as the Salinian Block. The

canyon itself is a confluence of varying formations; steep and narrow in some places, as wide

as a Himalayan valley in others. Sheer vertical walls can drop two miles to a sediment-buried

sea floor that dates back to the Pleistocene. Closer to shore, twisting chasms, some as deep as

6,000 feet, reach out from the main artery of the crevice like fingers of a groping hand.

Home to kelp forests and krill, Humboldt squid, and a plethora of fish and marine

mammals, the area is one of many protected sanctuaries in the area, extending as far west as

the Farallon Islands.

The Megalodon moved through the pitch-black depths of the Monterey Bay Submarine

Canyon, following the steep walls of the C-shaped crevasse. Millions of years ago, these same

Pacific waters had been a favorite habitat of the creature’s ancestors—until pods of orca had

raided their nurseries and forced the adults away from both the surface and the staple of their

diets … whales.

Blinded in her left eye, the pregnant female had fled the coast of Hawaii. Coming across

a warm current flowing southeast along the equator, the injured Meg had ridden the river just

as a Boeing 747 rides an airstream.

Crossing the Pacific, the predator’s senses detected the faint but alluring pounding of tens

of thousands of beating hearts and moving muscles. Homing in on the cetacean migration, she

arrived in the waters off Baja California. Ignoring the tempting shallows where mother Grays

were birthing their young, the albino monster followed the coastline to the north—her pre-

sence causing pods of gray whales to beach.

Despite the bountiful offerings she had not fed, her internal organs undergoing changes …

preparing her for labor.

Following the sea floor, she had descended into the extreme depths of the Monterey Bay

Canyon.

Something seemed familiar. Perhaps it was the hydrothermal vents or the steep canyon

walls, the water pressure or salinity. Territorial by nature, the sixty-foot female claimed the

area as her own, an expanse of ocean awarded by her mere presence as its supreme hunter. Her

senses indicated there were no other adult Megalodons in the area to challenge her rule. The

territory therefore became hers to defend.

Her young grew active, demanding she feed. For three hours, the predator had been

stalking the blue whale and its calf. They were moving just below the surface, the Meg

shadowing them in the darkness. The female waited to attack, refusing to venture into the

daylight.

Nightfall was coming …

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The Red Triangle

The Año Nuevo and Farallon Islands are a series of windswept rocks situated twenty-six

miles west of San Francisco’s Golden Gate Bridge. Uninhabited by people, one marine

mammal dominates its barren landscape—the northern elephant seal.

Reaching lengths of more than fifteen feet and weighing upwards of six thousand pounds,

the northern elephant seal is the largest pinniped in the world and the most sexually dimorphic,

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with an alpha bull mating with as many as four dozen females. Winters are spent onshore at

rookeries where the mammals mate, birth, and fight for dominance. Each spring and summer

they return to the Farallones to laze about the rocky beaches, playing, sleeping, and molting.

The presence of these massive creatures entices another species to visit the remote island

chain: Carcharodon carcharias, the great white shark. The seals are the predator’s favorite

delicacy, and the predators circle these islands en masse, their presence giving this expanse of

sea the nickname The Red Triangle.

The super yacht, Magnate was anchored in six hundred feet of water, her freeboard reflect-

ing golden flecks of sunlight. On her main deck, a weary crew of cameramen and technicians

were forced to tolerate the God-awful stench coming from the excrement of hundreds of sea

elephants and thousands of California seals and sea lions. The herds were stretched out upon

the rocky landmasses, the annoying creatures incessantly barking and snorting.

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Of all the documented attacks by great whites worldwide, more than half occurred in the

Red Triangle. Jonas believed the Farallones had once been a Megalodon nursery; if true then

Maggie reasoned the pregnant female might be drawn to the area, if only to feast on the

succulent fat of the islands’ elephant seals.

For three days her film crew had waited patiently for the creature to show up. Underwater

video cameras, audio equipment, and special underwater lights littered the ship’s deck, along

with cigarette butts and candy wrappers. A community laundry line had been hung along the

upper deck, dangling sweatshirts and towels.

Now the long hours of boredom, sun, and the occasional nausea associated with seasickness

had finally gotten to the crew. And yet even these conditions would have been tolerable had

it not been for the overwhelming smell that hung thick in the chilly Northern California air …

a stench different than the islands’ accumulation of poop.

Trailing the yacht on a thirty-foot steel cable was the buoyant carcass of a dead humpback

whale. The pungent smell seemed to hover over the Magnate as if to mark the heinous deed,

for killing a whale in the Monterey Bay National Marine Sanctuary was indeed a criminal act.

No matter: with his influence and deep pockets Bud Harris had managed to arrange for two

local fishermen to deliver a whale carcass to their location, no questions asked.

Now, after thirty-eight hours of the wicked stench, the Magnate’s crew were ready to

mutiny.

“Maggs, listen to reason,” begged Perry Meth. “Twelve hours of shore leave, that’s all I’m

asking. It could be weeks, months before this Megalodon even ventures into these waters. All

of us need a break, even a fresh shower would be heaven. Just get us off this smelly barge.”

She pulled her director aside. “Stop whining, Perry! This is the story of the decade, and I’m

not about to blow it because you and your cronies feel the need to get drunk in some sleazy

hotel bar.”

“That’s not fair—”

“No, what’s not fair is that it’s my ass on the line. Do you have any idea how difficult it was

to organize all this? The cameras? That huge shark tube? Not to mention that hunk of whale

blubber floating behind us?”

“Speaking of that, whatever happened to your campaign to protect the whales? I would

have sworn that was you I saw on stage accepting a Golden Eagle on behalf of the Save the

Whales Foundation.”

“Grow up, Perry, I didn’t kill the damn thing, I’m just using it as bait. I mean, cut me some

slack. There are ten thousand of them migrating along the coast.” She tossed her blonde hair,

causing strands of it to stick to her oiled bare shoulders.

Perry lowered his voice. “The crew’s not happy, Maggie. They’re cold and tired and they

feel you’re grasping at straws. Honestly, what are the chances of that Megalodon actually

showing up in the Farallones? No one’s reported seeing the shark since the attack in Hawaii.

And those beachings down in Baja mean nothing.”

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“The Meg will show, believe me, and we’ll be the ones to get the footage.”

“In what … that hunk of plastic?” He pointed to the ten-foot-high Lexan shark tube which

stood upright on the main deck, rigged to a winch. “Christ, Maggie, you’d have to be

suicidal—”

“That hunk of plastic is two-inch-thick bullet-proof Plexiglas. Its diameter is too wide for

the Meg to get its mouth around.” Maggie laughed. “I’ll probably be safer in there than you

guys will be on the Magnate.”

“There’s a comforting thought.”

Maggie ran her fingers across her director’s sweaty chest. She knew Bud was still in bed,

sleeping off another hangover. “Perry, you and I have worked very hard together on these

projects. Hell, look how much good our whale documentary did for those beasts.”

He smirked. “Tell that to your dead humpback.”

“Forget that already. Think big. I thought you wanted to direct movies?”

“I do.”

“Then see this project for what it is, a door-opener into Hollywood, the story that puts us

both on top. How does executive producer sound to you?”

Perry thought for a moment, then smiled. “It’s a start.”

“It’s yours. Now, can we forget about the dead whale for a moment?”

“Fine. But as your executive producer I highly recommend we do something to create a

little diversion; idle time is making things worse.”

“I agree, and I’ve got an idea. I’ve been wanting to do a test run on the shark tube. What

do you say we get it into the water and I’ll shoot some footage.”

“That’s not a bad idea. It will give me a chance to position the underwater lights.” He

smiled. “Maybe you’ll be able to get some nice footage of a great white. That alone might be

worth a few minutes on the weekend wrap-up.”

She shook her head. “See, that’s your problem—you think way too small.”

Bending over to pick up her wet suit, Maggie’s sweatshirt rolled up, rewarding Perry with

a glimpse of her tan, thonged behind. “One last thing. Do me a favor and don’t mention

anything to Bud about being my executive producer.” She smiled sweetly. “He gets jealous.”

Monterey Submarine Canyon

The Meg ascended cautiously, wary of any lingering traces of sunlight. When the surface

vibrations grew stronger and the sea remained dark, the female grew excited.

It was time to feed.

The ghost-like hunter circled three hundred feet below the blue whale and her calf, mother

and offspring feeding on krill.

Detecting the danger, the eighty-three-foot-long adult nudged her young, ending the feast.

Remaining in a tight formation, the two cetaceans propelled their bodies just below the

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surface, the moving mass of the one-hundred-and-eighty-ton blue whale creating a current

which towed its newborn faster than it could possibly swim.

But not nearly fast enough.

Closing to within two body lengths of her prey, the Megalodon targeted the adult blue

whale’s smallish pectoral fins, each feint designed to lure the cow away from its offspring.

Gnawing at the mother’s belly finally caused the whale to charge, the sudden descent

spinning the calf out from the displacement current.

The Meg circled back quickly, its jaws opening to engulf the calf—

—when suddenly the albino was seized by internal cramps that sent her back and pectoral

fins arching in an uncontrollable spasm.

Forced to abandon her prey, the Meg descended rapidly to the canyon floor. Her muscles

quivered with contortions, forcing her to swim in tight circles. Finally, with a mighty shudder

that shook her entire girth she expelled a cloud of blood from her cloaca—along with the head

of a Megalodon pup.

It was a female, pure white and seven feet long, weighing nearly five hundred pounds. The

pup’s teeth were sharper than its mother’s, its senses fully developed, enabling it to hunt and

survive on its own. Wiggling like a tadpole, it freed itself from its mother’s oviduct, its soulless

blue-gray eyes focused on the adult, instinct warning the pup of imminent danger.

With a burst of speed, it glided south along the canyon floor.

Still circling in convulsions, the female shuddered again, expelling a second pup—another

female—from its womb. Slightly smaller than its sibling, the pup shot past its mother, barely

avoiding a mortal, reflexive bite from the jaws of its cold, uncaring parent.

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Minutes passed. With one last convulsion, the Meg birthed her third and last pup in a cloud

of blood and embryonic fluid. The runt of the litter, a five-and-a-half-foot male, twisted out of

its mother’s orifice and twirled toward the bottom, righted itself, then shook its head to clear

its vision.

With a flick of her powerful caudal fin, the Meg pounced upon the runt from behind,

snapped her jaws shut around its lower torso, severing its caudal fin and genitalia in one vicious

bite.

Convulsing wildly, the dying pup writhed to the bottom, trailing a stream of blood.

Giving chase, the female inhaled the runt down its gullet, swallowing its remains.

For several minutes the Megalodon hovered near the bottom, exhausted from the efforts

of labor. Opening her mouth, she allowed the canyon’s current to circulate through her gill

slits, which fluttered as she breathed.

Water passed in and out of her nostril passages, feeding information to her brain. It moved

along the underside of her snout, plugging her in to the faint electrical fields generated by the

swimming muscles and beating hearts of her offspring and her escaping blue whale quarry. It

ran along her lateral line, stimulating her neuromast cells, allowing her to “feel” the ocean’s

currents and the presence of all biologics within her domain.

The female heard every sound, registered every movement, tasted every trail, and saw every

sight, for Carcharodon megalodon did not just move through the sea, the sea moved through

the Megalodon.

Her half-moon shaped caudal fin swung back and forth as she glided slowly over the canyon

floor, her massive head rotating from side to side, her nostrils flaring as they channeled water.

The predator quickened her pace, detecting an intoxicating scent.

Needing to feed, she turned to the north—passing within thirty feet of the steel doors

guarding the canal entrance that connected the Tanaka Lagoon with the Pacific Ocean.

Farallon Islands

They came without warning; their presence energizing the disgruntled crew.

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Bradley Watson, the Magnate’s captain spotted the first lead-gray dorsal fin twenty feet off

the yacht’s starboard bow. Within minutes, two more fins appeared, cutting back and forth

through the blood slick seeping out of the towed humpback whale carcass.

Perry Meth found Maggie pulling on her fluorescent yellow wetsuit.

“Okay, Maggie, you wanted some action. How about a test dive with three great white

sharks?”

Maggie felt her heart race. “Sounds like fun. Is everyone ready?”

“Reach-pole cameras and their operators are in position, underwater lights are on, and the

plastic tube’s all set. Your handheld camera is charged and ready to go.”

“Where’s Bud?”

“Still asleep.”

“Good. He’s been on the rag this whole trip. Now remember, when you start filming, I want

it to look like I’m all alone in the water with the sharks. How much cable’s attached to my tube?”

“Two hundred feet. We’ll keep you within seventy to maintain the light.”

She pulled the wetsuit’s hood in place and zipped up. “Let’s do it. I want to be in and out

of the water before Bud wakes up.”

She followed him to the main deck.

The crew had already lowered the Lexan shark cylinder over the side. The porous, clear

container had been custom-made for Maggie from a design originally developed in Australia.

Unlike a steel-mesh shark cage, the shark tube could not be bitten or bent, save for its

buoyancy tanks, which were anchored to its top hatch. It would maintain positive buoyancy

forty feet below the surface, affording its diver an unobstructed view of the underwater

domain. A steel cable served as a leash, running from the top of the cylinder to a winch on

board the Magnate.

Secured to reach poles were two underwater cameras linked to monitors on deck. While

Maggie was in the tube filming, the crew would be filming Maggie. If the lighting worked

properly, the shark tube would remain invisible in the water, giving the terrifying appearance

of seeing the diver exposed and alone in the water among the circling sharks.

Two crewmen helped her down the ladder. The Magnate had eight feet of freeboard and she

climbed down carefully, balancing on the bobbing cylinder’s buoyancy tanks. Perry handed her

a flipper, then the other, then climbed halfway down the ladder to hand her the thirty-seven-

pound underwater camera. He waited while she fixed her dive mask to her face. It was a bulky

contraption that wrapped around her chin, allowing her to breathe through her nose and mouth

while communicating with the ship via a speaker and headphone embedded in the mask.

“You ready?”

She nodded and took a quick glance around to confirm the location of her subjects.

Satisfied she was not about to be attacked, Maggie squatted on the edge of the hatch and then

lowered herself into the flooded tube.

Reaching up, she sealed the clear door.

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She sank into the center of the plastic tube, adjusting her buoyancy vest so she didn’t have

to tread water. Maggie had been diving for ten years, though rarely at night. The practice

would do her good.

The current was moving away from the yacht. Perry instructed his team to release steel

cable, the underwater cameras focusing on the tube as it sank beneath the keel and drifted

away from the Magnate.

“Stu, how are your remotes functioning?”

Stuart Schwartz looked up from his dual monitors. “Both cameras are working well. We’ll

keep Remote A in the stern and locked on to the bait. Remote B’s perfect to starboard. I can

zoom right up on that tube. Too bad Maggie didn’t wear her thong.”

The sound woman, Stuart’s wife, Abby, slapped the Phillies baseball cap off her husband’s

head. “Focus on your job, Spielberg.”

Maggie shivered from the potent combination of adrenaline and fifty-eight-degree water.

Her world was now shades of grays and blacks, visibility poor. She could see the Magnate’s keel

in the distance and wondered how she looked.

“Hello? Can you guys hear me?”

“Loud and clear,” reported Abby, her voice filtered.

Maggie looked around. Moments later, the first predator entered her arena.

It was a male, fourteen feet from snout to tail, weighing a full ton. Its head and dorsal

surface were lead gray, blending perfectly with the water. It circled the plastic tube warily, and

Maggie rotated to compensate.

Her eyes detected movement from below as a much larger nineteen-foot female rose out

of the shadows, catching the newswoman totally off guard. Forgetting she was in a protective

tube, Maggie panicked, frantically kicking her fins in an effort to get away. The shark’s snout

banged into the bottom of the tube just as Maggie’s head collided with the sealed hatch above.

She smiled in relief and embarrassment at her own stupidity.

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Stuart Schwartz was also smiling. The footage looked incredible, and scary as hell. Maggie

appeared totally alone in the water with the three killers. The Magnate’s artificial lights were

just bright enough to highlight Maggie’s fluorescent-yellow wetsuit. The effect was perfect.

Viewers would not be able to detect the protective tube.

“Perry, this is great stuff,” he announced. “Our audience will be squirming in their seats.

I gotta admit, Maggie really has a knack for the work.”

Perry stood behind Stuart, watching the monitor that was focused on the humpback carcass.

One of the sharks had bitten onto the waterlogged remains and was tearing away a mouthful.

“Film everything, Stu. Maybe we’ll be able to convince her to quit before this Megalodon

actually shows up.”

But Perry had a hard time believing that himself.

8 Miles North of Santa Cruz

They had followed the coastline north past Big Sur, the helicopter passing dramatic cliffs

and the crashing Pacific surf. Minutes later they were soaring over the Tanaka Lagoon and

Monterey Bay, the lights of San Francisco appearing in the distance.

Jonas held the night binoculars with two hands, steadying them against the herky-jerky

motion of the helicopter. A new thermal imager had been purchased to replace the damaged

unit, but after four weeks without a Megalodon sighting, it was the last money JAMSTEC

would be laying out for the expedition.

Every few miles a blotch of bright color would appear on the thermal imager’s monitor

representing another pod of whales moving south along the coastline.

“Mac, I can’t recall ever seeing so many whales in one place,” said Jonas, attempting to

make conversation.

Mac stared at Jonas with a burnt-out look. “We’re wasting our time. That fish of yours

could be back in Baja, or a million miles from here.”

“The Coast Guard’s well deployed over Baja. If they sight the Meg or anything resembling

a kill we’ll return.”

Jonas continued returned to scanning the ocean. He knew Mac was thinking about calling

it quits, and would have weeks ago if it hadn’t been for their friendship. He couldn’t blame him.

Money was tight and paychecks were being held. If the female had been feeding in these

waters, there would’ve been traces of whale carcasses washing ashore. None had been reported,

just the beachings in Baja.

Mac’s right, Jonas thought to himself. How many years of my life have I wasted chasing this

monster? What do I have to show for it? A marriage that fell apart years ago, a struggle to

make ends meet …

“More whales,” Mac said, pointing at the thermal imager’s monitor.

Jonas stared at the monitor. Was he seeing things, or were the whales changing course?

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“Mac, look at the pods; they’re leaving the coastline and veering sharply to the west. Maybe

they’re changing course to avoid something?”

Mac shook his head. “You’re grasping at straws. I say we land in San Francisco, then hit

Chinatown for some dim sum … your treat.”

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“Mac …”

Mac looked down again at the thermal imager. If the Meg was heading north along the

coast, it would be logical for the pods to avoid her.

“Okay, J.T., one last time.” The helicopter banked sharply, changing course.

Farallon Islands

Maggie checked her camera. She had plenty of film left but only another twenty minutes

of air. The shark tube had drifted beneath the humpback carcass, allowing for a spectacular

view. But Maggie knew footage of great whites feeding had become commonplace. She was

after much more.

I’m wasting film, she thought. She turned to signal the Magnate to pull her in, then noticed

something very troublesome.

The three great whites had all vanished.

Bud Harris kicked the silk sheets off his naked body and reached for the bottle of Jack

Daniel’s. Empty.

“Dammit!” He sat up, his head pounding. It had been two days and still he couldn’t get rid

of the nagging sinus headache. “It’s that damn whale,” he said aloud. “The smell’s killing me.”

Bud staggered to the bathroom, picked up the bottle of aspirin and struggled to get the

childproof cap lined up correctly. “Screw it,” he yelled, tossing the bottle into the empty toilet.

He looked at himself in the mirror. “You’re miserable, Bud Harris,” he said to his reflection.

“You’re too rich to be miserable. Why do you let her talk you into these things? Well, enough’s

enough!”

He slipped on a crushed velvet sweat suit and Docksiders, then left his master suite and

headed down the circular stairwell to the main deck.

“Where’s Maggie?” he demanded.

Abby Schwartz sat on deck, monitoring the audio track. “She’s in the tube. We’re getting

some great footage.”

“Where’s that director guy?”

Perry looked up. “Right here, Bud. What do you need? I’m kind of busy.”

“Pack up, we’re leaving.”

Perry and Abby looked at one another. “Maybe you ought to speak with Maggie—”

“Maggie doesn’t own this yacht, I do.” He grabbed the makeshift laundry line and tore it

down. “This isn’t the SS Minnow. Now where’s Maggie?”

“Take a look.” Perry pointed to the row of monitors.

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“Christ …” A smile broke on Bud’s face. “That looks pretty cool.”

“Hey!” Stu Schwartz held up his hand. “Something’s happening out there. My light meter

just jumped. It’s getting brighter.”

Maggie saw the glow first, illuminating what remained of the humpback carcass. Then the

head appeared, as big as her mother’s mobile home and totally white. She felt her heart pound-

ing in her ears, unable to comprehend the size of the creature that was casually approaching

the bait. The snout rubbed against the offering first, tasting it. Then the jaws opened. The first

bite was a nibble, the second took her breath away—as the jaws opened into a tunnel, slam-

ming down on a three-ton chunk of blubber.

The mammoth head shook itself loose from its meal, sending a flurry of oil-laced debris

swirling in all directions. As the monster chewed, the movement of its powerful jaws sent

quivers down its gill slits, ruffling the loose flesh along its neck.

Maggie felt herself drifting to the bottom of the shark tube, unable to move. She was in awe

of this magnificent creature, its power, its nobility and grace. She raised her camera slowly,

afraid she might scare it off.

“Christ, pull her back in!” Bud ordered.

“Are you crazy? This is what we came here for.” Perry was excited. The whole crew was

excited … or scared. “What a monster. Goddamn, this is amazing footage!”

“Pull her back in now, Meth,” Bud warned, “or you’ll be joining her.”

Bud’s crew closed ranks around him. The boss meant business.

“Okay, okay, but she’s gonna be mighty pissed off.” The director signaled to his assistant,

who activated the winch.

The steel cable snapped to attention as it began dragging the shark cylinder through the

water.

The Meg stopped feeding, its senses alerted to the sudden movement. Being plastic, the

shark tube had not given off any electronic vibrations, and so the predator had ignored it. Now

the big female abandoned the carcass, sculling forward to examine this new stimuli.

Maggie’s heart fluttered as the tube suddenly jerked backward through the water. “Hey?

What the hell are you assholes doing?”

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Bud’s voice came over her headpiece, filtered. “Maggie, you okay?”

“Bud Harris, if you have any desire to touch my naked body again, you’d better stop what

you’re doing. Now!”

The Meg rubbed its snout along the curvature of the shark tube, confused. Its head swayed,

allowing it to focus on her with its good eye.

It sees me …

The tube stopped moving.

The Meg’s enormous mouth opened and closed, almost as if it was speaking to her. Then

its jaws opened wider, its upper lip receding to reveal a band of pink gums and frightening

front rows of teeth, which the monstrous shark attempted to use to bite down upon the

cylinder.

The smooth plastic surface slid harmlessly away.

Maggie smiled. “What’s wrong, gorgeous? Too big for ya?”

Regaining her swagger, she repositioned the camera, filming down the shark’s cavernous

gullet. “Can you say Ahhh—cademy Award?”

Applause filtered through her headpiece.

Maggie held up her hand, acknowledging the crew’s appreciation.

The Megalodon turned and disappeared into the darkness. Maggie caught a flicker of its

caudal fin on film before it vanished into the lead-gray periphery. She took a breath, all smiles.

“It moved off,” confirmed Perry.

“Thank Christ,” said Bud. “Okay, get her out of there before it comes back.”

“Ohhhh shit!” yelled Stu, who impulsively backed away from the monitors.

The Meg had circled. It was accelerating at the tube.

Maggie screamed, paddling backwards until her air tank banged against the inside of the

tube.

The head of the 62,000-pound prehistoric great white rotated sideways to align its

hyperextended jaws with the tube seconds before—

Whomp!

The bone-jarring impact sent Maggie’s face mask smashing into the interior forward wall

of the tube, her head spinning from a concussion wave that would have shattered her skull had

she not been underwater.

The cylinder was driven backwards, pinning her to the plastic curvature—all that separated

her from being swallowed whole. It smashed against the Magnate’s keel, giving the enraged

Megalodon enough leverage to wrap its mouth around its elusive prey, the tips of a few of its

teeth catching onto the cylinder’s drainage holes.

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The Meg had established a grip, but it could not generate enough power from its hyper-

extended jaws to crush the maddeningly wide tube.

Frustrated, the beast drove its kill to the surface, the plastic cylinder still locked sideways

in its mouth. Swimming away from the Magnate, which it perceived as another challenger, it

pushed the tube along the surface, plowing a ten-foot wake.

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The spool of steel cable unwound six feet a second, then the entire assembly was wrenched

away from the decking. It smashed through the mahogany guard rail and splashed into the sea.

The Megalodon’s upper torso rose vertically out of the Pacific, then, in an unfathomable

display of brute strength, it lifted the Lexan tube above the waves.

Water streamed out of the tube’s vent holes, lightening the load as the creature’s head

shook it back and forth, left, then right.

Maggie couldn’t hold on. Flopping one way then the next like a lone ball in a tennis can,

she smashed sideways into the hatch, the collision denting her air tank.

The effort of supporting the shark tube and its passenger quickly wore down the

Megalodon. The female shook her teeth free of the cylinder. The porous tube refilled with

water and sank slowly beneath the waves with its badly shaken occupant.

Mac’s helicopter soared over the Farallon Islands, hovering high above the luxury yacht

anchored off one of the jagged coastlines.

Jonas looked through the night binoculars, zooming in on the deck of the ship. “Wait a

minute … I know that yacht. That’s the Magnate, Bud Harris’s ship.”

“The guy banging your wife?” Mac circled the yacht. “Let’s see if we can take out his

satellite dish with my tool chest.”

Jonas pulled the glasses away from his face. “Something’s going on down there, the crew’s

in a panic.”

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Chaos reigned on board the Magnate. Captain Watson had started the engines, then shut

them down, afraid the noise would attract the Meg. Perry was excited, yelling orders to camera-

men to climb to the highest point of the yacht to film. Bud was watching by the starboard rail

in a state of shock as Stuart and Abby Schwartz continued to try to communicate by radio with

Maggie.

When the helicopter appeared, Bud had panicked, thinking it was the Coast Guard, afraid

the authorities had come to arrest him because of the humpback carcass.

“Bud!” Captain Watson yelled from the pilothouse, “some guy in that helicopter wants to

speak with you. Says his name is Jonas.”

“Jonas?” Bud ran up to the bridge and snatched the radio. “Jonas, it’s not my fault. You

know Maggie, she does whatever she wants!”

“Bud, calm down,” commanded Jonas. “What’re you talking about?”

“The Meg. It took her. She’s trapped in that damn shark tube.”

Mac spotted the Megalodon. It was circling in deep water, three hundred yards off the

Magnate’s starboard bow.

Jonas focused with the night glasses. He could just make out Maggie’s yellow wetsuit. “I

think I see her. Bud, how much air’s left in her tank?”

Perry Meth’s voice filtered over the radio. “No more than five minutes. If you guys can

distract the Meg, we could get her out of there.”

Jonas tried to think. What would draw the monster’s attention away from Maggie? The copter?

Then Jonas noticed the motorized raft on the Magnate’s deck.

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“Bud, the Zodiac, get it ready to launch,” ordered Jonas. “I’m coming aboard.”

Maggie fought to keep from blacking out. Everything hurt, but the pain was good, it kept

her conscious. Her face mask had a hairline crack and was leaking seawater into her eyes. The

earpiece was buzzing with static. Her ears were ringing, and it hurt to breathe.

The Megalodon continued circling, watching her with its one functional basketball-sized

blue-gray eye. The glow from its hide cast an eerie light, illuminating Maggie’s wet suit. She

checked her air supply again; down to three minutes.

I’ve gotta make a break for it, she told herself, but refused to uncurl from her ball.

Jonas clipped the end of his harness to the hoist cable rigged to the chopper’s winch, a

radio transmitter and receiver looped around his neck.

Mac passed him the transmitter rifle. “For the record, are you doing this outta love, greed,

or some bizarre sense of guilt?”

“Does it really matter?”

“Not at all, I just wanted to know what to say at your funeral.” Mac activated the winch,

lowering Jonas to the helo-deck.

Captain Watson ran over to Jonas as he touched down. “Zodiac’s ready to launch. What

do you want us to do?”

“I’ll distract the Meg. Once she follows me, get your yacht over to Maggie’s location and

get her the hell out of there—fast.”

Watson led Jonas to a motorized raft suspended over the starboard rail. He secured his rifle

inside, then climbed in, the captain lowering him eight feet into the sea.

Bud joined them, a headset in his hand. He dropped it over the rail and into the Zodiac.

“We’ve reestablished contact with Maggie.”

Jonas positioned it over his ears and then gunned the engine. The rubber raft skimmed

across the surface, its outboard engine gurgling a high-pitched whine. He shouted over the

headset, “Maggie, can you hear me?”

“Jonas? Is that you?”

“Hang in there, baby, we’ll lead the Meg away. How deep are you?”

“I don’t know, maybe ninety feet. Jonas hurry, my mask cracked, the pressure’s unbearable,

and I’m almost out of air.

Jonas cut the distance to Maggie’s tube in half, then switched headsets. “Mac, can you hear

me?”

The helicopter was hovering a hundred feet above the Zodiac. “Barely. I’m guessing the

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Meg hears your engine. She stopped circling … she’s rising. Jonas, hard to starboard!”

Jonas veered the rudder hard to his right as the Meg’s head and upper torso punched up

through the surface, its snapping jaws just missing the raft.

Adjusting his course, Jonas headed for the nearest island.

The albino dorsal fin raced after him, its presence sending elephant seals and sea lions

leaping out of the water onto the rocks.

The Magnate sprang to life, her twin engines growling as they pushed the yacht ahead.

Unable to breathe, Maggie unlatched the tube’s hatch. Grabbing the underwater camera,

she released her weight belt, her buoyant empty air tanks carrying her to the surface as she

exhaled slowly, bleeding any nitrogen bubbles from her system.

Mac yelled over the headphones as the creature’s snout collided with the back of the

Zodiac, “Jonas, move! Zig-zag or something!”

Jonas cut back hard to port, racing for the shallows, nearly shredding the raft’s skin on a

jagged rock formation, the seals barking encouragement.

He stole a quick glance over his shoulder.

The fin was gone.

“Mac, where is she?”

“I don’t know. She must have gone deep.”

Maggie’s pulse pounded in her ears as she ascended, the surface within view, yet still so far

away. She kicked with lead legs, her free hand ripping the mask from her face to save precious

seconds.

Finally her head broke the surface and she gasped a deep life-giving breath.

The Magnate was bearing down on her and she waved, treading water as the ship slowed,

its port flank coming toward her. She leaped for the aluminum ladder and grabbed hold of a

rung, but it was too slick and the boat was still moving too fast to hold on to and she fell away.

The yacht finally stopped moving twenty yards away. Dragging the heavy camera in one

hand, she paddled awkwardly with the other to cheers from her production crew.

“Way to go, champ,” yelled Perry.

She paused at the ladder to wave at one of her crew who was filming her from the bow.

“Maggie, get in the goddamn boat!” screamed Bud.

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She unlatched her buoyancy vest, allowing the bulky air tank to fall off her shoulders.

Unable to climb wearing her flippers, she pulled them off one at a time, then attempted to

place her bare right foot on the bottom rung.

Bud was hanging over the side, reaching down. “Dammit, Maggie, come on!”

Maggie felt a wave of exhaustion. “The camera’s too heavy.”

“Then drop it.”

“Not a chance.” Reaching up, she held it over her head, forcing Bud to climb down the

ladder to retrieve it.

Grabbing hold of the dripping case, he retreated back up the ladder and handed the

underwater camera to Abby Schwartz, who grabbed it in both hands … and dropped it to the

deck, the blood rushing from the sound operator’s face.

Maggie was levitating along the side of the boat as if possessed—her body rising above the

mahogany rail, followed by the Megalodon’s ghostly white head right beneath her.

Disoriented, Maggie looked down, shocked to realize she was standing in the creature’s

mouth, her bare feet on the sandpaper-like surface of its tongue.

“Bud?”

Caught between the yacht and the creature’s upper torso, the millionaire slipped his body

behind the ladder and held on, fighting to keep his trembling body from making contact with

the glistening white hide.

The night spun in her vision, the surreal ride peaking as she glanced below at the shocked,

horrified faces of her production team.

She was about to chastise her cameraman for having stopped filming when the lower jaw

steadily closed in on her midsection, its semicircle of white, sharp teeth puncturing her wetsuit,

which instantly sprouted a warm scarlet blanket of liquid.

With a sudden terrifying lurch, she felt the creature drop like an elevator as a dozen unseen

six inch butcher knives punctured her back and ribs and spleen, her lungs heaving hot blood

up through her esophagus, gagging her scream as the Meg slipped back into the sea.

Bud was paralyzed in fear, his limbs no longer his to control. Afraid to move, he could only

hold on to the ladder and look down.

The keel’s underwater lights illuminated the Megalodon’s head, which remained ten feet

beneath the surface. Held within its half-closed jaws was the woman he loved, her face pale in

death, her lifeless eyes open, her blonde hair rinsed pink in a crimson bath.

The shark was draining Maggie, inhaling her blood deep into its gullet, the residue

streaming out its gills.

Bud choked on his own vomit—until he realized the creature was staring … at him!

The presence of more prey broke the spell. The Meg opened its mouth wider as it rose,

creating a vacuum that sucked Maggie into its black vortex and out of sight, expelling a car-

sized burp of air and blood.

Bud squeezed his eyes shut and waited to die.

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Once more the Megalodon’s head broke the surface, its jaws opening to pluck the morsel

from its perch—

The heavenly light smashed through the darkness as if guided by the hand of God, the

helicopter’s beacon scorching the Meg’s remaining good eye, blinding the female as it sent

white-hot waves of pain flooding into her optic lobe.

Convulsing in spasms, the Meg whipped its massive head sideways, bashing it against the

port-side of the Magnate, crushing fiberglass—just missing the ladder and Bud Harris.

Standing in the Zodiac, Jonas aimed the rifle and fired, the transmitter dart burying its

barbed end into the creature’s snow-white belly.

The agitated beast slammed its head back into the water, generating a tremendous wake

which flipped the Zodiac and tossed Jonas overboard. He surfaced, climbing quickly up the

aluminum ladder, dragging Bud with him.

The two men were helped on board, Bud taken below.

Jonas watched Mac’s helicopter as it headed south, the spotlight illuminating the white

dorsal fin until it submerged, the Meg racing into deeper waters.

Pulling himself to his feet, he leaned out over the crushed mahogany rail and puked.

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MORNING MOURNING

HE AWOKE IN A STRANGE BED in a musky room. Daylight framed heavy curtains drawn

over a window situated above an air conditioner vent.

His head hurt. He couldn’t remember when he had last eaten, but the empty beer cans

which littered the floor filled in the blanks.

He jumped at the knock on the door. The chambermaid was quick with the pass key, the

chain lock denying her entry. “Housekeeping?”

“Go away!”

The door pulled shut.

He rolled out of bed. Found his way to the bathroom and relieved his bladder. Rinsed his

mouth out in the sink, then took stock of his reflection in the mirror.

The three-day-old growth and dark circles under his eyes aged him ten years. He thought

about shaving.

Instead, he fished through the small refrigerator.

Most of the good snacks were gone. He debated recalling the chambermaid; instead he

settled for a ginger ale and a bag of Oreos and climbed back into bed.

Locating the remote, he turned on the television.

Channel 9 Action News was showing Maggie’s underwater footage taken from the Lexan

cylinder.

“… Maggie Taylor gave her life to her profession, leaving these incredible scenes as her

lasting legacy. A public service will be held on Thursday, and Channel 9 will be presenting a

two-hour special tonight at eight honoring Mrs. Taylor.

“In a related story, a federal judge ruled today that the Megalodon has officially been listed

as a protected species of the Monterey Bay National Marine Sanctuary. We bring you live to

the steps of the Federal Court Building.”

Jonas turned up the volume.

“Mr. Dupont, were you surprised today how quickly the judge ruled in favor of protecting

the Meg, especially in light of the recent attacks?”

Andre Dupont of the Cousteau Society stood next to his attorney as microphones were

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pressed to his face. “No, we weren’t surprised. The Monterey Sanctuary is a federally protected

marine park designed to protect all species, from the smallest otter to the largest whale. There

are other marine predators in the park—orcas, great whites. Each year, we see isolated attacks

by great white sharks on divers or surfers, but these are rare occurrences. Humans are not the

staple of the great white’s diet, and we certainly are not the preferred food source of a sixty-

foot Megalodon. Of greater importance will be our effort to immediately place Carcharodon

megalodon on the endangered species list so it is protected in international waters as well.”

“Mr. Dupont, what is the Cousteau Society’s opinion of the Tanaka Institute’s plan to

capture the Megalodon?”

“We believe all creatures have a right to exist in their natural habitat. However, in this case,

we are dealing with a species that nature may have never intended to interact with man. The

Tanaka Lagoon is certainly large enough to accommodate a creature of this size, therefore we

agree it might be best if the Megalodon was captured.”

The Channel 9 anchor reappeared.

“We had our field reporter, David Adashek, conduct an unofficial street poll to gauge

public opinion. David?”

Jonas stared at the familiar face framed by the bushy eyebrows, and shook his head. “God,

Maggie, what did I ever do to make you so bitter?”

“Trudy, opinions seem to favor capturing the monster. Personally, I feel the creature is a

menace. I’ve spoken to several marine biologists who believe that it’s possible for sharks to

acquire a taste for humans. If true, then we can expect more gruesome deaths, especially in

light of today’s federal court ruling. This is David Adashek reporting for Channel 9 News.”

Another knock sent him searching for his tee-shirt. “Hold on!” Make sure she stocks the

fridge with those little vodka samplers …

He opened the door, daylight burning into his eyes.

“Masao?”

“Taylor-san, let me in.”

Jonas stood aside. “How did you find me?”

“You charged the room to your credit card. Mac did the rest.” He looked around, stepping

over empty beer bottles and liquor samplers. “You have coffee? Never mind, I see it.” Masao

went into the kitchenette and filled the empty glass pot with water.

“What time is it?”

“One-twenty. No more alcohol, okay? It will rot your liver.” Masao sat at the small kitchen

table. “I am truly sorry about your wife. She died a noble death, doing what she believed in.”

“Death is death. As for our marriage, that was over long ago. She died on her lover’s boat.”

Jonas shook his head, taking a seat across from him. “I’m sorry, Masao, I can’t do this

anymore.”

“What can’t you do?”

“There’s been too much death. Let the authorities handle the Meg.”

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“Authorities? I thought you were the authority? Jonas, we have a responsibility as marine

biologists. I feel it. I know you do as well.” Tanaka looked into Jonas’s eyes, bloodshot and

exhausted. “A tired mind should not make decisions, but we are running out of time.”

“I already made my decision. I’m through.”

“Hmm. Taylor-san, you are familiar with Sun Tzu?”

“No.”

“Sun Tzu was a great warrior, he wrote The Art of War more than twenty-five hundred years

ago. Sun Tzu said, ‘If you know neither the enemy nor yourself, you will succumb in every

battle. If you know yourself but not the enemy, for every victory gained you will also suffer a

defeat. But if you know the enemy and know yourself, you need not fear the result of a

hundred battles.’ Do you understand?”

“No … I don’t know, Masao. I can’t think right now.”

Masao placed his hand on Jonas’s shoulder. “Jonas, who knows this creature better than

you?”

“This is different.”

Masao shook his head. “The quarry remains the quarry; the enemy is yourself. It has been

for the last seven years; it will be so for the next seven.” He stood. “No matter. My daughter

can handle what must be done.” He stood, checking on the coffee.

“Terry? What’s Terry going to do?”

“Pilot the Abyss Glider, of course. Someone must secure the net around the creature once

it has been sedated. The transmitter you implanted is functioning; we just need a sighting to

bring the Kiku within range of the signal.”

“But Terry—”

“Terry is a competent pilot who is not afraid.” He poured a cup of coffee, setting it on the

table in front of Jonas. “The Kiku is docked inside the lagoon; I gave the crew seventy-two-

hour shore leave while we resupply the ship and test the net. We set out to complete the job

tomorrow morning at ten, should you change your mind.”

Masao patted him on the shoulder, then headed for the door.

“Masao …”

“Do not worry yourself. The Tanaka clan will finish this business ourselves.”

He waved to Jonas, then left.

San Diego

Bud Harris stood by the port rail, watching the sun set over a placid sea. The millionaire

always loved this time of day—a brief reprieve from the stress of work; an opportunity to

meditate and recharge his batteries for the night ahead.

Not anymore.

He winced as the Magnate’s underwater lights came on, illuminating the yacht’s keel. He

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stared below, his limbs trembling, his breathing rapid and shallow. He was all alone and he

knew that was a bad thing.

The sky darkened; the wind picked up.

And then the whispers came, tickling his ear. “Bud? Baby, where are you?”

“Maggie? Maggie, is that you?” Bud leaned over the rail, searching the black sea.

“Bud, please help me; I don’t know where I am.”

Hot tears rolled down his cheeks. “Maggie, sweetheart … you’re dead.”

“I’m not dead, Bud.”

“Maggie, I saw you … I saw—”

“Stay there, Bud. I’m coming for you.”

Bud’s flesh tingled. He stared at the lit patch of water directly below the rail where he was

standing. Then he saw the glow—a speck of white rising from the deep.

“Maggie?”

As he watched a snout materialized, followed by a massive triangular head.

“No … no, Maggie … stay away—”

The jaws opened, the Megalodon rising out of the sea …

“No!”

Bud shot up in bed, screaming, his right arm covered in blood.

A Jamaican nurse entered the hospital room, followed by a male orderly.

“He tore his I.V. out again.”

The nurse quickly slipped on a pair of rubber gloves. “It’s okay, Mr. Harris,” she soothed.

“It was just another nightmare.”

“A nightmare? Where am I?”

“You’re in the hospital. You suffered a nervous breakdown.”

The orderly opened a drawer and pulled out a set of Velcro straps. “Dr. Wishnov said if he

pulls his I.V. out again we need to strap him down for the night.”

“Touch me with those and your next job will be cleaning bed pans.”

“I clean bed pans every day.”

“Then I’ll crap in bed and you can clean my ass!”

“Calm down, Mr. Harris—”

“I want out of here; I want my own doctor. Where’s my goddam cell phone?”

The nurse signaled to the orderly to back off. “Tell you what … let me fix your I.V. and

we’ll get you your phone.”

He looked up at the nurse. “No straps?”

“As long as you stay calm.”

He extended his left forearm, the veins bruised from repeatedly pulling out I.V. needles.

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Steve Alten

Unable to locate a clean vein, the nurse turned his hand over. Dabbing his flesh with an

alcohol swab, she inserted the needle just below his index finger.

“Ouch! Where’d you go to nursing school? Haiti?”

Ignoring the comment, she taped down the needle and started the drip, then shot a syringe

of sedative into the bag.

Bud’s eyes grew heavy. He laid his head back, mumbling something as he passed out.

The nurse nodded to the orderly. “Strap this a-hole down.”

The cab passed Jonas’s house, continuing to the end of the block. The news vans were gone,

but there were two SUVs parked a few houses away that looked suspicious.

Hunched low in the backseat, Jonas instructed the driver to turn down the next block.

He paid the driver, then cut through his neighbor’s backyard and hopped the fence into his

own yard. Locating the hide-a-key, he entered through his back door.

The house had been emptied. Paintings, furnishings, plants … Maggie’s clothes—Bud’s

movers had taken it all. Even the pots and pans were gone.

She doesn’t even cook … didn’t cook … ah, geez.

He entered his office. Files were strewn everywhere, his laptop open. He wiggled the

mouse, chasing away the screensaver. She had been Googling the Farallon Islands.

Jonas sat back in his chair, the image of the Megalodon’s last attack burned into his

memory. And yet every time he tested his emotional response, he kept imagining Terry.

Maggie had been right; Jonas found himself thinking about Terry all the time. Surrendering

to their mutual lust, they had been together in his stateroom the night Masao had gone ashore.

She had snuck out of his room just before dawn, winking to Mac who had seen her exiting his

friend’s cabin.

And then Jonas had pulled back, afraid things had gone too far.

Terry had misinterpreted his sudden coolness, believing Jonas still had feelings for his

wife—either that or he felt like his actions had been disrespectful to her father. A woman

scorned, she had treated him coldly after that—and deservedly so.

But it was neither Maggie nor Masao that caused Jonas to cool things off with Terry. The

truth was that he was afraid.

Ever since the attack in Hawaii, Jonas had become convinced that he would not survive the

mission. Premonitions of his own death came in the form of a recurring dream, one in which

he found himself in the minisub, hovering along the surface, the Megalodon rising to attack

from below, devouring him whole.

So realistic were these nightmares that, on several occasions Jonas woke up screaming.

Had this been an isolated experience, he would have chalked it up to the nature of their

mission and the monster they were chasing. Only it wasn’t isolated. Seven years earlier, Jonas

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had experienced a similar series of dreams while on board the Navy transport, the Maxine D.

It had been these night terrors that he secretly credited for saving his life on his last dive into

the Mariana Trench. Despite Frank Heller’s accusations, Jonas knew now that he hadn’t

panicked when the Meg had attacked the Sea Cliff. In fact, he had reacted with lightning-quick

reflexes from hours of mentally rehearsing what he would do if the submersible had been

threatened by the biologic they had first detected on sonar hours earlier … a state of paranoia

implanted by the dreams.

Seven years later the night terrors had returned.

The last one had been the worst. After Terry had left his cabin he had fallen back asleep.

In a vivid dream he found himself in a suffocating, terrifying darkness. Trapped within this

void, death had whispered into his ear.

With a blood-curdling scream, Jonas had shot up in bed, his entire body bathed in sweat.

Jonas had ended things with Terry Tanaka, not because he didn’t care about her, but

because he knew he was falling in love. Hers were the ties that kept him bound to the mission;

their blossoming relationship would be his death knell.

The six-and-three-quarter-inch bottom tooth was a fossil. Lead-gray and heavily serrated,

it was worth at least a thousand dollars to collectors, though Jonas would never sell it. The Meg

tooth had been a gift from Mac on his thirty-fifth birthday—a good-luck charm that had

ushered in a book deal and a string of good tidings.

Jonas removed the tooth from its glass case. He ran his fingers absentmindedly along its

sharp serrated edges as his thoughts returned to his last conversation with Masao.

Making up his mind, he carried the Megalodon tooth into his bedroom. Emptying his

workout gear from a gym bag, he repacked it, sandwiching the tooth between a few days’ worth

of clothing.

Entering his bathroom, he located a razor and shaved, calculating the drive time to

Monterey.

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PAYBACK

BUD HARRIS GATHERED HIS BELONGINGS and stuffed them into a plastic bag provided

by the orderly. Unshaven and badly in need of a shower, the once-proud entrepreneur had

been reduced to a feeble shell of his former self. Deeply depressed after having witnessed his

lover’s death, Bud was also suffering from exhaustion brought on by a lack of REM sleep.

The millionaire no longer cared whether he lived or died. He felt alone and in pain, barely

and was afraid to sleep. His doctors recommended he see a psychiatrist. Bud wasn’t interested.

The nurse arrived to escort her patient out of the hospital with the traditional wheelchair

ride. “Mr. Harris, is anyone meeting you downstairs?”

“No.”

Two men strode up to the nurse. “We’re here to meet Mr. Harris.”

Bud looked up at them. “Who the hell are you?”

“Dr. Frank Heller. This is my associate, Richard Danielson.” Heller held out his hand.

Bud ignored it. “Danielson? You’re the asshole who got all those Navy guys killed going

after the shark. Should have killed the damn thing while you had the chance.” Bud stood,

walking away from the wheelchair, the orderly, and the two men. “I’ll find my own way out.”

“That’s why we’re here,” Heller said, following him down the corridor. “My brother,

Dennis, was butchered by the same monster that killed Maggie Taylor.”

“Yeah? Well, I’m sorry for your loss, now if you’ll excuse me—”

“Hold it,” said Danielson. “This thing has killed a lot of people. We thought you’d want to

be involved in a little payback.” Danielson looked at Heller. “Maybe we were wrong.”

The thought of killing the Megalodon seemed to set off a spark in Bud. He focused his eyes

on Danielson for the first time. “What is it you need? Money? Weapons?”

“Just your boat.”

Tanaka Oceanographic Institute

Jonas parked in the deserted lot, his dashboard clock reading 12:07 p.m. Traffic in Los

Angeles had cost him several hours, but he had managed to reach Masao by phone.

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Grabbing his bag, he headed for the helipad.

Mac was waiting for him in the helicopter, his cheeks full from taking down a bacon

cheeseburger in two bites. “Well, well, the prodigal son-in-law returns.”

“Clever.”

“While you’ve been camped out in your motel hide-a-way, I spent the better part of the last

three nights flying up and down the coast searching for the Meg. The homing device you

implanted seems to be functioning; unfortunately I had walkie-talkies as a kid that carried a

better range. The Coast Guard’s been helping out and we covered about four hundred nautical

miles, but if she’s in the canyon we may never find her.” He tossed Jonas a fast food bag

holding another bacon double cheeseburger. “Lunch is on me. So Romeo, how long have you

and the voluptuous Ms. Tanaka been sharing bodily fluids?”

“Just the one time, if you must know.”

“Oh, but I must. It’s all part of my responsibilities as your life coach.”

“Seeing how my life has been going of late, maybe I should have fired you.”

“Oh, boo-hoo.” Mac strapped himself in, powering up the chopper. “I don’t see anyone

putting a gun to your head. Despite tossing yourself repeatedly and quite moronically, may I

add, into the line of fire you’re still very much alive. That’s a lot more than we can say about

D.J. and that two-timing wife of yours—my condolences, by the way. So, am I taking you to the

Kiku, or not?”

“I’ve been having those dreams again, Mac. The ones I told you about when we first

met—when I mistook you for a real shrink.”

“More premonitions? Of what?”

“Being eaten by our friend.”

Mac powered off the engine. “How long have you been having these new night terrors?”

“Since the Nautilus disaster.”

“Maybe the dreams were warning you about Maggie?”

“I considered that. Only the dreams are clearly from my perspective. I’m in the Abyss

Glider, powerless along the surface. It’s daylight. Looking below, I see the Meg. She’s rising

from below. Her mouth opens wide … and in I go.”

“When was the last dream?”

“The night I was with Terry … you know, afterwards.”

“Jonas, if you’re so convinced you’re going to die on this mission, why the hell are you

here?”

“Honestly, I wasn’t going to show up. Then, I thought back to a story my father told me

shortly after he was diagnosed with stage-four cancer. The story was about two men. The first

was a Chicago native nicknamed, ‘Easy Eddie.’ Easy Eddie was Al Capone’s lawyer. Despite

his boss being a murderer and notorious gangster, Easy Eddie managed to keep Capone out

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of jail. To show his gratitude, Capone paid his attorney a lot of money. He set Easy Eddie and

his family up in a huge mansion with live-in help. Made sure he had everything he could

possibly want.

“Easy Eddie had a son that he loved more than anything in the world. He gave his son

everything … a good education, fancy clothes. Despite his own involvement with organized

crime, Eddie even tried to teach his kid right from wrong. But there were two things Eddie

couldn’t give his son; he couldn’t pass on a good name and he wasn’t a good example of how

to live your life.

“In an effort to cleanse his tarnished soul and restore some integrity to his name, Easy

Eddie decided to testify against Al ‘Scarface’ Capone—as sure a death sentence as my father’s

cancer. He testified anyway.

“Capone died in prison, and within a year the mob killed Easy Eddie, who left this world

giving his son the greatest gift he had to offer—his life.

“The second man my father told me about was Lieutenant Commander Butch O’Hare.

Butch was a World War II fighter pilot assigned to the aircraft carrier Lexington in the South

Pacific. On February 20, 1942, Butch and his squadron were sent on an important mission.

After he was airborne, Butch realized his crew hadn’t topped off his fuel tank, which meant he

wouldn’t be able to complete his mission and get back to the aircraft carrier. His flight leader

ordered him to return to the ship.

“On his way back to the Lexington, Butch O’Hare spotted a squadron of enemy aircraft

heading for the American fleet. The American fighters were gone, and the carrier fleet was all

but defenseless. O’Hare had no way of alerting the Lexington in time, so he did the only thing

he could, he dove into the enemy’s formation with his 50 caliber guns blazing, taking out one

plane after the next until all his ammunition was gone. Even then, he went after the remaining

planes, attempting to clip them with his landing gear. In the end, he succeeded in diverting the

enemy from the American fleet and made it back safely to the Lexington.

“The film from O’Hare’s gun-mounted camera showed the extent of Butch’s heroism and

he became the Navy’s first Ace of World War-II and the first naval aviator to be awarded the

Medal of Honor. A year later, at the age of twenty-nine, Butch O’Hare was killed in aerial

combat. His hometown decided to name their airport in his honor … Chicago’s O’Hare airport.

There’s a memorial statue of Butch O’Hare located between Terminals 1 and 2.”

“I never knew that. Why do you think your father told you about these two men?”

“Butch O’Hare was Easy Eddie’s son.”

Mac sat back, the story suddenly weighing heavier.

“When they found Easy Eddie’s body, there were three possessions on him which the police

gave to his son, Butch—a crucifix, a religious medallion, and a poem torn from a magazine.

The poem read: ‘The clock of life is wound but once, and no man has the power to tell just when

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the hands will stop, at late or early hour. Now is the only time you own. Live, love, toil with a will.

Place no faith in time. For the clock may soon be still.’

“The cancer took my father three months after he was diagnosed. To answer your question,

Mac, I’m here because I have no control over my clock—none of us do. The only thing I can

do is have faith and do the right thing. Take me to the Kiku.”

“And the voluptuous Terry Tanaka.”

Mac restarted the engine, then reached over and tossed Jonas’s bacon double cheeseburger

out of the open cockpit. “Don’t eat that stuff, it’ll kill you.”

Aboard the Whale Watcher: The Cap’n Jack

Four days had passed since the death of Maggie Taylor. Although surfing, jet-ski, and

parasailing activities suffered, other businesses attracted out-of-towners to the Northern

California coast like bees to honey.

At the top of the list were whale-watching excursions. Much like cage-divers yearning to

photograph a great white in the wild, the public was willing to pay good money for an

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opportunity to see a real live Megalodon shark … albeit from the safety of a decent-sized ship.

Within days, tour boat operators were offering special late afternoon and evening excur-

sions to the Farallon Islands at triple the normal fares. Night trips sold out quickly, forcing the

Coast Guard to announce it would be patrolling the area after dusk. Marine biologists from

the Monterey Bay Aquarium reminded the public that the Megalodon had never surfaced

during daylight hours and that the presence of hundreds of whales migrating south through the

Monterey Bay Sanctuary without any noticeable changes in behavior served as a “canary-in-

the-coal-mine,” rendering the odds of experiencing an actual Meg sighting on par with hitting

the lottery.

Jason and Milisa Russell had driven from Covington, Washington to Monterey to catch

“Meg-fever.” Unfortunately, all of the evening tours were booked, and the few late afternoon

openings on ebay were beyond their budget, so they settled on a late morning tour aboard the

Cap’n Jack, a forty-two-foot sightseeing boat docked at the Monterey Bay wharf.

The skipper, an Iraqi War Vet named Robert Gibbons, greeted the Russells as they boarded

the vessel. The couple located an empty bench in the stern next to a silver-haired woman and

her red-headed teenage daughter.

“Hi, I’m Marilyn Rhea,” the woman gushed, her southern accent heavy, “and this is my

daughter, Shannon. Shannon, put the gosh-darn phone away.”

“Ugh, you are so annoying.”

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Milisa forced a smile. “We’re the Russells. I’m Milisa, this is my husband, Jason.”

“Hey.”

Marilyn rolled the collar of her sweater higher. “We’re from Tennessee; this is our first trip

to California. Why is it so gosh-darn cold?”

Before Milisa could answer the boat’s engines growled to life, its exhaust choking those

passengers seated behind the pilothouse.

Captain Gibbons’s voice squawked over the loudspeaker. “Welcome aboard the Cap’n Jack.

I’m your skipper, Robert Gibbons, and we’ve got a great day in store for you. While I know

many of you are hoping we’ll come in contact with the Megalodon shark, we won’t be venturing

anywhere near the Farallon Islands this morning. We will, however, be looking to encounter

the Meg’s favorite food—whales. So keep your cameras ready, you never know what can

happen.”

Aboard the Kiku

Masao Tanaka was waiting by the helipad as Mac landed the helicopter. He smiled when

he saw Jonas in the co-pilot’s seat.

“Taylor-san, I am so glad to see you. Unfortunately, my daughter may not share these same

feelings. When she heard you were returning, she went to her cabin to pack her belongings.

Perhaps you could speak with her?”

Jonas knocked on Terry’s door.

“Go away.”

“Terry, give me five minutes and I’ll be out of your life.”

She yanked open the door. “Five minutes.”

He entered her cabin. Her suitcase was on the bed, packed to the brim with clothes.

“Terry, why are you leaving?”

“I don’t owe you an explanation.”

“No, but I owe you one. The morning you left my cabin … I freaked out a little bit. See, I

had this dream—”

“I don’t care.” She stuffed a toiletry bag inside the suitcase and zipped it closed.

“Terry, the reason I treated you coldly had nothing to do with Maggie. I do really care

about you and—”

She wheeled around to face him. “You don’t care about me. Your wife cheated on you and

you used me to get even.”

“That’s not true. Yes, things were happening quickly between us, but that had nothing to

do with Maggie … our marriage was over long ago. What scared me off wasn’t you, it was these

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recurring nightmares about the Meg. I had these same premonitions seven years ago before

I dived the trench for the Navy. I knew if I stuck around that I’d probably die this time around,

only I was falling in love with you.”

“And so you pushed me away so you could leave without feeling guilty? That’s a pretty

lame excuse.”

“Agreed. But I’m back.”

“Why? So you can replace me on yet another dive? So you can save me from that big, bad

shark? Well, guess what? I’m not some helpless damsel-in-distress that needs to be saved. As

for these premonitions, did you ever stop to consider that maybe, if you had let me dive the

Mariana Trench, things might have gone differently? Maybe it was your bad karma seven years

ago that killed those men? Maybe, if I had gone with D.J. instead of you, my brother might still

be alive.”

Grabbing her suitcase, she pushed past him and left.

Aboard the Whale Watcher: The Cap’n Jack

14 Miles West of Santa Cruz

The Russells were sipping hot chocolate on the stern bench, the cold having chased Marilyn

Rhea and her daughter, Shannon inside.

Jason was scanning the ocean with a pair of high-powered binoculars when Captain

Gibbons’s voice came over the loudspeaker, “Folks, this is really exciting! On our port, or left

side, is an unusually large pod of orca.”

Everyone moved to the port side, cameras poised.

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“Orca, also known as killer whales, are extremely intelligent hunters, able to kill whales

many times larger than themselves. Looks like we’re catching this pod in the middle of a hunt.”

Jason focused his binoculars on the black dorsal fins moving parallel to the boat a good

eighty yards away. There were at least twenty orca, with three big males taking turns converg-

ing on a smaller object, the rest racing along the perimeter to ensure their prey would not

escape.

As he watched, Jason saw what looked like an albino great white shark, its two-foot dorsal

fin bleeding as the wolf pack tore at its hide.

The Megalodon pup raced along the surface, prevented from submerging by the much

larger predators below. The pod had tracked down the female as it hunted southeast of the

Farallon Islands.

With frightening speed and power, the orca bulls snapped at the shark, taking turns flipping

its broken carcass high into the air, making a sport of the demise of the would-be future queen

of Monterey Bay.

Ten minutes later the Cap’n Jack’s engines powered off, leaving the boat to roll gently in

three-foot seas. The gray horizon ran unimpeded for miles in every direction, the sudden quiet

magnifying the sensation of isolation.

“Folks, you’re about to get your money’s worth. Twenty yards off the starboard bow is a

gray whale cow and its calf. If we’re lucky, they may come closer.”

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Marilyn and her daughter rejoined the Russells in time to witness the mother gray whale’s

head break the surface, allowing a few passengers to reach over the rail and touch it.

“Wow, Shannon, did you see that?”

The teen ignored her, attempting to find a signal on her cell phone.

The Russells waited their turn, Milisa managing to take a picture of her husband reaching

out to touch one of the gentle giant’s barnacles.

The gray whale submerged, its calf remaining close enough to the boat for passengers

hovering by the starboard rail to snap selfies.

Without warning, something violently pounded the ship’s keel, the multiple impacts rocking

the vessel.

Jason watched as a patch of sea swirled below, the surface pooling a dark red.

“Is that blood?”

With a whoosh, the gray whale breached ten yards behind the boat. Thrashing about, it

slapped its fluke repeatedly against the surface before rolling onto its side—revealing a crater-

shaped gushing wound the size of an open beach umbrella.

Pushing one another, the passengers rushed to the back of the boat to take photos.

“Maybe it’s the orca?”

“Can’t be, the wound’s too big. It has to be the Megalodon.”

The gray whale calf approached its mother, chuffing rapid exhalations.

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Without warning, the Megalodon’s stark-white head rose vertically from beneath the

newborn, engulfing the newborn whole, slamming shut a second later like a steel bear trap,

cetacean blood splattering the passengers.

Some screamed, others cheered.

The wounded gray whale surfaced again, blood splashing everywhere.

A crewman raced inside the pilothouse to report to the captain. Seconds later, the engine

restarted, joined by a sickening clang of metal as the dented propeller bashed against its

crushed housing.

Feeding below, the Megalodon registered the annoying disturbance and rose to investigate.

Aboard the Kiku

Terry Tanaka entered the bridge to confront her father, who was standing over Alphonse

DeMarco manning the radio.

“Masao, where’s Mac? I need him to take me back to Monterey.”

“Not now, Terry. The Coast Guard just picked up a distress call from a whale-watching

boat not far from here.”

“The female? In broad daylight?”

Jonas entered the bridge. “The attack on the yacht … Mac’s light must have blinded her.”

“The monster’s blind? Taylor-san, is this a good thing?”

“Not if she’s surfacing during the day. A shark losing its sight is a lot different than you or

me going blind. She has other sensory organs that she’ll be able to use to guide her. Consider-

ing daylight had been her Achilles heel, I’d say things just got worse.”

Sonar operator Robert Nash pressed his headphones to his ears. “Masao, the Meg’s

transmitter signal just appeared on sonar. She’s nineteen kilometers to the northwest on course

two-seven-three.”

Captain Barre adjusted their course and speed as Mac entered the bridge.

Masao turned, barking out orders. “Mac, the creature has surfaced. Refuel the chopper,

then I want you in the air, Captain Barre will feed you the coordinates. Alphonse, get to the

harpoon gun. Jonas, I’ll need you ready in the Abyss Glider.”

“Change in plans, Masao. Terry’s going to pilot the minisub. I’ll work the winch.”

Masao turned to his daughter. “You are okay with this?”

She glanced at Jonas, then nodded to her father. “I can handle it.”

Aboard the Whale Watcher: The Cap’n Jack

The gray whale’s fluke had bent the Cap’n Jack’s propeller when it had been attacked

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beneath the boat. The screw could turn, but not without chafing metal on metal, creating a

sound that irritated the Megalodon.

Each time Captain Gibbons attempted to move the boat, the sixty-foot shark charged the

stern—causing the twenty-seven passengers on board to yell at the crew.

“Stop angering it!

“Here it comes again—hold on!”

Whomp!

The creature plowed into the keel, the collision propelling the boat thirty feet, knocking

Milisa Russell off her bench while sending the Meg’s wake spilling over the transom, soaking

her husband, Jason.

“Jonas, you read me?”

“Go ahead, Mac,” Jonas yelled into his walkie-talkie. He and DeMarco were positioned at

the Kiku’s stern rail, ready at the deck-mounted harpoon gun.

“I’m about two hundred feet above the whale-watching boat. There’s blood everywhere,

looks like the Meg took out a whale. And the boat’s just sitting there, dead in the water.”

As Mac watched, a swell suddenly appeared sixty yards off the boat’s starboard flank, the

albino creature charging the vessel.

Whomp!

The boat shuddered as it was plowed thirty yards to port, the passengers flailing across the

deck.

To his horror, Mac saw a red-headed woman fall overboard.

“Jonas, what’s your ETA?”

“Ten minutes.”

“You’d better tell Leon to haul ass or this is going to turn into an all-you-can-eat human

buffet.”

Marilyn Rhea screamed as she saw her daughter flip head first over the side.

Shannon surfaced forty feet from the still-drifting boat in water so cold it took her breath

away. Barely able to tread water, still gripping her cell phone, she realized her clothing was

stained in blood.

“Oh God, I’m bleeding.”

Turning to her left, she saw the floating island of blubber and realized it was the gray

whale’s blood, not hers. Relieved, she turned to her right—and screamed.

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A four-foot wake was rolling toward her. The monster was moving just beneath the surface,

its open mouth visible within the swell, its mouth turning sideways to eat her.

Shannon bit down on her cell phone and then lunged to her left, desperately clawing and

scrambling and pulling herself out of the sea and onto the back of the dying gray whale.

The Megalodon rolled onto its side to consume its prey, its senses had been locked on the

electrical impulses of Shannon’s beating heart—which suddenly disappeared. The albino

predator passed beneath the whale, its head rotating from side to side as it attempted to

relocate the signal.

Shannon clung to the bobbing, bleeding whale as the swell rolled over her cetacean island

up to her thighs.

When she looked up she saw a large ship racing towards the whale watching boat from the

southeast.

Leon Barre cut the Kiku’s forward speed in half as he attempted to come alongside the tour

boat’s portside beam, giving Jonas a clear shot.

Jonas spun the harpoon gun counterclockwise on its base and focused through its sight.

“Mac, where is she, I still can’t see her?”

“She just passed beneath the wounded whale.”

“Okay, I see her. Al, warn them.”

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Alphonse DeMarco raised the megaphone to his lips. “Attention whale watcher passengers

and crew. Get in the middle of the boat and take cover.”

The passengers were lying on deck, fearful of falling overboard when they looked up and

saw the research vessel’s bridge pass by, followed by the top of a steel A-frame and what

appeared to be a harpoon gun.

Jonas fired.

The harpoon exploded out of the cannon, trailing smoke and steel cable. The projectile

struck home, burying itself four feet deep into the Megalodon’s thick hide, inches from the

base of its dorsal fin.

The monster spasmed. Arching its back, it whipped its head sideways and submerged,

jerking the steel line faster than its spool could unravel slack.

The Kiku lurched hard to starboard, its aft end smashing into the whale-watcher.

WHOMP!

The Meg rammed the Kiku’s keel, the force of the blow bending steel plates, sending Jonas,

DeMarco, and the two crewmen flopping to the deck.

“Hard to port,” growled Captain Barre, picking himself up off the deck of the bridge.

“Masao, when the hell’s this shark of yours gonna fall asleep?”

“Just lead it away from that tour boat.”

Hovering two hundred feet above the Pacific, Mac watched as the Kiku headed south, the

enraged Megalodon circling back to ram the ship again. “Sweet Jesus. Jonas, you guys okay

down there?”

“We’re taking a beating. What’s it look like to you?”

“Looks like I’m flying home alone. What happened to those drugs of yours?”

“My guess would be a bad reaction. Stand by.” He changed frequencies. “Masao, what’s

the harpoon getting on the Meg’s vitals?”

“I think we overdosed her. Her pulse just rocketed from seventy-seven to two hundred and

twelve beats per minute.”

“Hold on,” yelled Nash, “she’s breaching again!”

Wa-BOOM!

The Kiku shuddered, the impact sending books and charts flying.

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“She’s gonna tear my ship apart!” yelled Barre, grabbing the ship’s internal phone.

“Captain here … speak.”

“Skipper, the engine room’s taking on water. Another blow like that last one and we’ll be

swimming home.”

“You think I don’t know this? If it’s leaking plug it, if it don’t work fix it!” Barre slammed

the receiver down, then turned his ship hard to port.

The Megalodon’s brain was on fire, her blood boiling, her heart racing out of control. The

predator’s sensory system was overloaded by the madness brought on by the overdose of

pentobarbital. Unable to reason, the creature was bound to her primordial instincts.

Dragging the steel cable to a depth beyond fifteen hundred feet, the Meg targeted its

challenger, her senses homing in on the electrical impulses given off by the Kiku’s steel hull

moving through seawater. The crescent tail whipped back and forth, driving the monster back

toward the surface as she rammed the ship again, smashing the forward compartment of the

keel.

This time, the force of the blow knocked the giant predator senseless, stymieing her heart

rate long enough for the pentobarbital and ketamine to take hold, shutting down the creature’s

central nervous system.

“Taylor-san, the creature’s heart rate is plummeting. One-twenty … one hundred. Stand

by. Okay, it seems to be stabilizing … fifty-three beats per minute.”

“We don’t have much time. Al, take up the slack and release the net; I’ll get Terry into the

water.”

He hurried to the Abyss Glider. The minisub was ready to launch, Terry waiting by its open

rear hatch.

“You sure about this? It’s not too late to change your mind.”

“Shut up,” she said. Reaching for him, she buried her tongue in his mouth, the kiss more

lust than passion.

Terry pulled away, her cheeks flushed, her eyes wide. “Okay, let’s do this.”

She crawled head first into the sub, sealing the hatch from the inside as he started the A-

frame’s winch. The Abyss Glider was hoisted twenty feet off the deck.

Pivoting the A-frame aft caused the minisub to swing outward over the rail away from the

Kiku, allowing Jonas to lower the craft into the sea.

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The Meg was losing feeling in its tail. The female slowed, barely moving, dangling by the

steel line almost twelve hundred feet beneath the surface.

DeMarco and his assistant, Philip Prousnitzer stood at the stern, watching the Kiku’s winch

strain to gather in steel cable.

“Phil, secure the winch at five hundred feet, then help me ready the net.” He looked down

as the Abyss Glider’s saddle sunk beneath the minisub, freeing the buoyant craft.

Terry started the engine. The sub leaped forward, submerging into the vast blue world.

“Terry, can you hear me?” Masao’s voice filtered over the radio.

“Loud and clear. I’m at five hundred feet. Visibility’s good.”

“The Meg’s respiration rate is plummeting.”

“Stand by.” Terry descended the glider, following the cable at a forty-five-degree angle. At

eight hundred and sixty feet she saw the Meg.

The monstrous albino shark was suspended head down, its tail thrashing uselessly. Unable

to channel water into its mouth, the creature’s gills could not function.

The Megalodon was drowning.

“Masao, the Meg’s not breathing. You’ve got to tow her immediately. Do you copy?”

“Hai. Stand by.”

The Kiku’s engines restarted with a metallic, grinding sound. The line grew taut, causing

the Megalodon’s head to jerk upward toward the sub. Terry circled the glider out of harm’s

way as the creature leveled off.

Keeping the submersible parallel with the shark’s gills, she focused her attention on the five

15-foot long vertical slits. They remained pressed tight.

Moving ahead to the Meg’s mouth, Terry realized the creature’s jaws were clamped shut,

perhaps a reflex action brought about by the drugs which targeted the shark’s central nervous

system.

Looping the glider into a tight three-sixty, she circled back and accelerated, smashing the

minisub’s Lexan nose against the Megalodon’s mandible where the lower jaw hinged with the

upper, the collision nearly tossing her head first from her harness.

The Meg’s lower jaw dropped open, seawater rushing in.

Seconds later, the gills began to flutter.

“Whatever you just did, Terry, it seems to be working. According to the harpoon’s sensors,

the creature’s blood-oxygen levels are rising. Well done.”

She beamed proudly. “Thanks … Dad. You can tell Al to lower the net.”

“Stand by.”

Terry hovered by the Meg’s right flank, marveling at the sheer size of the creature, its stark-

white hide, its savage grace. For the first time she found herself looking at the Megalodon as

something other than a menace that needed to be killed. The shark was a product of evolution,

perfected by nature over hundreds of millions of years. It was the true master of the ocean,

perhaps the last of her kind, and Terry felt better about not destroying it.

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Looking up, she saw the Meg harness—a weighted cargo net, feeding out along the surface.

Jonas had ordered flotation buoys attached along its perimeter, the inflatable devices designed

to be operated from the Kiku. In this way, the Megalodon could be released safely once

secured inside the lagoon, with the net simply dropping away as the devices were deflated.

Ascending to meet the sinking cargo net, Terry extended the glider’s retractable arm, using

it to grab hold of the lead marker buoy. Submerging, she dragged the net straight down on a

ninety-degree descent, stretching out the rolled-up slack.

Passing the Megalodon’s head, she leveled out, racing beneath the creature’s scarred belly

and beyond its caudal fin.

“Masao … father, I’m in position. Inflate the harness.”

“Stand by.”

The net’s perimeter buoys sprang to life, the compressed air causing the suddenly buoyant

net to fit the contours of the Megalodon. The thirty-ton shark rose, the tension releasing from

the harpoon as it leveled off a hundred and sixty feet below the surface.

“That’s perfect,” Terry said. She descended beneath the half-moon tail, inspecting the

netting supporting the Meg’s belly.

“Uh-oh.”

“Terry, what is it?”

“Masao, the female gave birth.”

“Are you certain?”

“One hundred percent. Have Jonas stand by with the glider’s saddle, I’m coming aboard.”

“Terry, before you surface, Leon requests that you check the damage to the ship’s keel.”

“On my way.” Terry accelerated past the captive female, moving beneath the boat’s hull.

“Oh, wow …”

The multiple impacts by the Megalodon had taken out one of the ship’s two propeller shafts

and dented the other. Worse, a twelve-by-twenty-foot section of steel plating had been crushed.

The boat was taking on water.

The Kiku was sinking.

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DUSK

LEON BARRE POINTED TO A SECTION of the Kiku’s keel on a computer schematic. “Terry

counted seven bent plates,” the captain said, “at least three of which are taking on water.

They’re right on the seam; no way to seal them while we’re at sea. The starboard shaft’s com-

pletely bent, it won’t turn at all. The portside shaft’s turning, but it’s also damaged, making a

helluva noise. Rev her any faster than six to seven knots and she’ll tear loose.”

“Will we sink?” Masao asked Captain Barre. The ship had taken on a tremendous amount

of water, her decks were now listing at a fifteen-degree angle to starboard.

“Sink? Yes. Maybe not tonight, who knows, maybe not tomorrow. We sealed off the

forward compartment and the pumps are running, but she’s still takin’ on water.”

“How long until we arrive at the lagoon?” asked DeMarco.

“Pulling that monster out there, that’s a lot of drag, lots of work for one screw. It’s just after

seven. I say we make it back tomorrow morning, just after dawn.”

DeMarco looked at Jonas. “Will the Meg stay unconscious for that long?”

“I hate to add to all the uncertainty, but honestly, I don’t know. There’s no way of telling.

I gave her what I thought was a sufficient dosage to keep her under twelve to sixteen hours.”

“Taylor-san, can we inject her again?”

“We can, but it’s dangerous. There’s a risk of permanent damage to her nervous system.

And we’ve already seen what happened before the drugs took effect. If she reacts that way

along a populated shoreline like Monterey …”

Masao shook his head, unsure. “Not many options. Leon, how many crew members do you

need to run the ship? Maybe we should evacuate some of the men now—”

“No. With the damage to the screw and the sea knocking on the door, I need every hand

I’ve got, plus some. We leave this ship, we’re all gonna leave together.”

“The problem is not the Kiku,” Terry interjected, “it’s the reliability of the Meg’s cardiac

monitor. Jonas and I can set up shifts to watch her in the Abyss Glider. If she appears to be

waking up, we’ll radio you to hit her with another injection. Maybe we can reduce the dose a

bit and keep her under just long enough to make it inside the lagoon.”

“Taylor-san?”

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THE

“It sounds like our best option.”

“Very good. You and Terry set up a schedule; begin the first shift at four a.m. Alphonse,

I want you and Philip Prousnitzer to set up similar shifts at the harpoon gun.” Masao paused,

listening to the sound of thunder rumbling in the distance. “Is that a storm front moving in?”

Mac entered the bridge, having just refueled his chopper. “Not thunder, Masao. That’s the

sound of helicopters. News choppers, five of ’em to be exact, and there’s more coming. I’d say

it’s gonna be mighty crowded around here by dawn.”

Frank Heller paused from his work, looking up at the television screen for the fourth time

in the last hour to watch the latest news update:

“… two hundred feet below us, lying in a comatose state is the sixty-foot Megalodon, a

monster responsible for at least a dozen deaths over the last forty-two days. From our view, you

can clearly see the creature’s snowy-white hide, its skin almost luminescent in the lunar light.

“At her present course and speed, the heavily damaged Kiku is expected to reach the

entrance of the Tanaka Lagoon sometime around dawn. Channel 8 News will be keeping a vigil

all night, bringing you the latest on this breaking story. This is Michelle Cylwa, KSBW-TV,

reporting live from the …”

“Turn it off already, Frank,” yelled Daniel-

son. They were aboard the Magnate, assembl-

ing a homemade depth charge in the yacht’s

exercise room. Danielson was hard at work,

installing the fuse to the four-by-two-foot steel

barrel. “Haven’t you had enough? You’ve been

watching the same story all night.”

“You asked me to find out how deep the

Meg is,” Heller said in his defense. “Did you

expect me to swim out with a tape measure?

From the camera angle, I’d guess she’s about a

hundred and fifty to two hundred feet down.

What kind of kill zone you rigging that charge

with?”

“Enough to fry that fish and the rest of her

kind. I’ve added extra amatol, which is rather

primitive but highly explosive. The challenge

will be getting close enough to make an accurate drop. We’ll have to rely on Harris for that.

Where the hell is he anyway?”

“Up on deck. Did you hear the guy screaming in his sleep?”

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Steve Alten

“Half of San Francisco heard him. I’ll tell you something, Frank, I haven’t been sleeping

well myself.”

“Relax, skipper, after tomorrow, you’ll be sleeping like a baby.”

Bud Harris stood by the starboard rail, staring at the reflection of moon on the black sea.

The Magnate was anchored three hundred yards south of the Tanaka Lagoon, and in the lunar

light, Bud could just make out the white concrete wall of the huge canal entrance.

“Maggie …” Bud drained his beer as he watched small wakes lap at the hull. “Look what

you’ve gotten me into. Hanging out with a bunch of Navy bozos, playing war against some

freakin’ fish.”

Bud tossed the empty can in the water and opened another. “Ahh, Maggs. Why couldn’t

you have just dropped the stupid camera?” Tears rolled down his cheeks. “Well, don’t worry,

your man’s gonna kill that monster and cut out its eyes.” He turned, staggering past the grand

spiral staircase to one of the guestrooms. Bud found he could no longer sleep in the yacht’s

master suite. Maggie’s perfume still lingered, her presence too vivid. When the mission was

over, he planned to sell the yacht and move back east.

Collapsing onto the queen-sized bed, he passed out.

The two-foot albino-white dorsal fin cut the surface, circling the discarded aluminum can

as it sank into the black waters of the sanctuary.

Aboard the Kiku

The Kiku crawled across the Pacific, listing twenty-eight degrees to port. All but two of the

news helicopters had left, the others expected back by dawn as the ship moved within fourteen

miles of the Tanaka lagoon.

Terry stood by the stern rail, staring at the soft white glow reflecting in the moonlight. Her

hand caressed the switch controlling the air pressure feeding the net’s inflatable buoys.

“Be easy to do, wouldn’t it?”

Terry turned, surprised to find Jonas watching her.

“Release the net and she drowns. Been thinking about it myself. But it’s not what your

brother would want.”

“Maybe it’s what I want.”

“Then do it.”

Terry fingered the controls. Her hand quivered.

Jonas placed his hand over hers. “It won’t bring him back.”

She turned to face him and wept. Jonas hugged her to his chest.

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THE

The female ascended slowly, rising through the gray curtains of light that could no longer harm

her, her great caudal fin beating harder as she rose, her jaws agape.

At four hundred feet Jonas saw her rising through the blue underworld. The triangular head …

the satanic grin. It was seven years ago and he was back on the Sea Cliff … only this was different,

this time there was no retreat, no escape.

I’m going to die …

“Ahhhh.”

Jonas shot up in bed, bathed in sweat. Terry was next to him, wearing his grey Penn State

T-shirt. She had turned on the light and was now kneeling beside him.

“Are you all right?”

He nodded, struggling to find his voice.

“You screamed so loud, I thought I was going to have a heart attack. Was it the same

dream?”

He nodded again, then reached for the open bottle of water by the bed, his hand trembling.

He thought about popping one of his yellow pills, then changed his mind.

“What time is it?”

She looked at her watch. “Three-forty. The first shift starts in twenty minutes. It’s mine.”

“No.”

“Jonas, if these nightmares really are premonitions—”

“The dream takes place in the Abyss Glider during the day. If you really want to help me

then let me have the pre-dawn shift. We can switch at sunrise.”

“Okay, that makes sense.” She straddled him, removing his shirt.

“What are you doing?”

She smiled. “We still have twenty minutes.”

Alphonse DeMarco loaded the injectable cartridge of pentobarbital and ketamine into the

harpoon, then checked his watch again. Four-fifteen. Where was the man?

Terry approached, smiling. “Morning, Al.”

“Not yet it’s not, but it will be soon. Where the hell is Jonas?”

“He’s coming.”

Jonas hustled out of the Kiku’s infrastructure, zipping up his bio-suit. “Sorry. Forgot my

good luck charm.” He held up the lead-gray fossilized Meg tooth.

DeMarco shook his head. “Ever hear of a rabbit’s foot?”

Jonas winked at Terry, fighting to take his eyes off her. For the first time in as long as he

could remember, he felt happy.

He tucked the tooth inside a Velcro pouch over his chest, then he and Terry completed a

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Steve Alten

visual inspection of the Abyss Glider. “Looks good. I’d better get going.”

“Don’t forget, I relieve you at sunrise.” She squeezed his hand, then leaned in and

whispered in his ear. “Jonas, what I said before about you bringing bad karma to the mission

… you know I didn’t mean it.”

“Yeah, you did. But karma can change. I think it usually takes about twenty minutes.”

She smiled, watching him crawl inside the aft end of the glider.

DeMarco was standing by at the winch. He waited until Jonas sealed the hatch and gave

a thumbs-up before reversing the cable, lifting the minisub off the tilted deck by its saddle.

Jonas held on as the A-frame swung him out over the Kiku’s stern. For a long moment he

swayed, DeMarco allowing gravity to rectify the awkward angle of the A-frame before lowering

the glider into the dark waters of the Pacific.

Jonas activated the exterior light. He waited until the saddle sunk clear of his propeller,

then powered up the engine and descended below the Kiku’s keel for a quick inspection.

With the ship sitting lower in the water and listing hard to port, the damage looked far

worse than Terry had described twelve hours ago. He circled below the slowly churning

propeller, the wobbling blades caused by the bent shaft.

Descending to three hundred feet, he approached the Megalodon, the adrenaline causing

his heart to race.

The creature’s white hide reflected the minisub’s exterior light, casting the gargantuan

shark in a ghostly glow. Banking in a tight circle, Jonas maneuvered the AG-I along the right

side of the unconscious monster’s head, maintaining a twenty-foot distance.

The lower jaw was agape, water passing through uninhibited. The Meg’s lidless eye was

involuntarily rolled backward in the shark’s head, concealing the pupil. It was a natural

response, the Meg’s brain automatically repositioning the now-useless organ for its own

protection.

190

THE

“Jonas!” His heart jumped from his chest, his harness pulling hard against his shoulders.

“Dammit, Terry, you scared the hell out of me.”

He could hear her laughing through the radio. “Sorry. Hey, we’re still steady at fifty-three

beats per minute, though yours shot up to one-twenty. How’s the Meg?”

“Sleeping like a baby. How close are we to the lagoon?”

“Six-point-three miles away. Leon predicts we’ll be entering the canal right around seven-

twenty.”

Jonas smiled. “Sounds like the beginning of a great day.”

Monterey Bay

They had been waiting all night, anchored close to shore—a pilgrimage gathered as if

summoned by the creature itself. Some were marine biologists, others reporters, but most were

simply curious tourists and thrill seekers, apprehensive yet prepared to face the risks in order

to be a part of history. Their transports varied in size, from small outboards to larger fishing

trawlers. Every whale-watching company within a fifty-mile radius was represented, their rates

sufficiently inflated for the event.

And while they waited they partied. Music blared and beer flowed from kegs. Police boats

patrolled the area, every once in a while issuing warnings. For a few minutes the sound decibel

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Steve Alten

would drop, picking up again the moment the cops were out of range.

Andre Dupont had to lease the forty-eight-foot fishing trawler for the week, even though

the Cousteau Society only needed the boat for the day. Leaning against the bow rail, the

French marine biologist watched the northeastern sky through his binoculars as the gray haze

grew lighter. Turning west, he followed the line of the horizon to the Kiku, the crippled

research ship still a good three miles from the canal entrance.

He reentered the bridge, nodded to the captain, then pulled his American liaison, Kariane

Philips aside, whispering to her in French. “Kariane, the Kiku is close now … just over six

kilometers away. How close to the Megalodon will our captain bring us?”

Kariane shook her head. “The captain refuses to leave the shallows until the Megalodon

is secured in its pen. He won’t risk the boat.”

“I do not blame the man.” Dupont gazed out the bridge windows, the predawn light

revealing several hundred water craft. The Frenchman shook his head. “I fear that our other

friends will probably not be as cautious.”

Frank Heller sat in the Magnate’s bridge, watching the Kiku crawl through a pair of high-

powered night binoculars as the damaged vessel pushed ahead at its agonizingly slow pace. He

shared none of Andre Dupont’s exhilaration, only rage. In his shirt pocket was a photo of his

brother, Dennis and his family. The side of his neck felt tight, throbbing with his rising anger.

He imagined himself sitting down with his two nephews one day in the near future, describing

how he had killed the monster that took their father. The thought strengthened his resolve.

“It’s time, Mr. Harris,” he said, not looking away from the horizon.

Bud engaged the throttle. The Magnate’s twin engines jumped to life, pushing the yacht

toward their destiny.

The pre-dawn light filtered curtains of gray down through the depths.

Jonas watched as the creature’s entire torso became visible, a lethal dirigible being led

toward its new hangar. He brought the glider’s Lexan nose cone within five feet of the female’s

right eye, the pupil still rolled back in its head, the light exposing a bloodshot white-yellow

membrane.

“Jonas?” Terry’s voice crackled over the radio. “Something’s happening with the Meg. Her

respiration rate is up and her pulse has been climbing steadily over the last few minutes. As we

speak, it’s at sixty-six. I think she’s rousing herself, trying to come out of it.”

192

THE

“Jonas, DeMarco here. If the creature’s heart rate reaches seventy-five, I want you back in

the glider’s saddle. As soon as you’re back on board, I’m hitting your monster with another

harpoon full of drugs.”

Jonas thought about arguing, but changed his mind.

DeMarco was right. If the Meg regained consciousness before the Kiku could get her safely

in the lagoon, the ship and its entire crew would be in danger.

He stared at the creature’s open jaws. Coursing through its DNA was four hundred million

years of instinct. The predator would not think or choose; she would only react, each cell

attuned to her environment, every response preconditioned. Nature itself had decided that the

species would dominate the oceans, commanding it to perpetuate itself in the Mariana Trench,

away from man.

Jonas whispered, “We should have left you alone.”

Terry’s voice pierced his thoughts. “Jonas, didn’t you hear me?”

“Sorry, I—”

“Your friend’s yacht is bearing down on us.”

“You mean the Magnate? Is Bud on board? What’s he doing?”

“I don’t know, but they’re within five hundred yards of the Meg and closing fast.”

DeMarco focused his binoculars on the yacht, his line of sight drifting back to activity in the

stern. Two men were balancing a large steel drum on the transom.

Four hundred yards …

DeMarco recognized a face … “Frank?” He refocused on the steel drum and realized what

he was witnessing.

“Mac, they’ve got a depth charge—get airborne! Jonas, they’re trying to kill the Meg—get

deep!”

Adrenaline pumping, Jonas rolled the sub beneath the Megalodon’s massive pectoral fin

and descended.

Mac pulled back on the joystick as he adjusted his foot pedals, sending the helicopter

leaping off the Kiku’s listing deck. Wary of the news choppers overhead, he stayed within

twenty feet of the surface, racing to intercept the yacht.

“Morning, Bud. Hope you’re in the mood for a … Mac attack!”

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Steve Alten

Bud looked up as a helicopter appeared out of nowhere, bearing down on his bridge on a

collision course. The millionaire yanked the wheel hard to port seconds before the platform

supporting the chopper’s thermal imager smashed into the Magnate’s radar antenna, ripping

it off of its aluminum base, the air raining shrapnel.

Reacting as if a grenade had just gone off above their heads, Danielson and Heller dove

for cover, abandoning the depth charge.

As the yacht veered hard to port, the steel drum rolled over the transom and plunged into

the ocean. Seawater rushed into the canister’s six holes, filling the pistol chamber, sinking the

bomb.

Cursing, Heller sat up, looking back in time to see the helicopter bank sharply, the pilot

circling back.

“Lunatic …”

“Frank, the charge—get down!”

Mac pushed down on the joystick, a smile fixed on his face as he began a second run at the

yacht.

Wa-BOOM!!

The underwater blast sent a geyser of sea rocketing skyward into the path of the helicopter,

the rotor fighting to regain draft.

194

THE

Mac fought his controls as the tail of his chopper swung out from behind him, smashing

into the upper deck of the Magnate, shearing off the blades.

Before he could react, the copter slammed sideways into the ocean.

At three hundred and twelve feet, the depth charge’s spring had released, thrusting the

percussion detonator against the primer. The crude weapon had imploded, then exploded with

a flash and subsonic boom. Although the lethal radius of the bomb measured only twenty-five

feet, the resulting shock wave was devastating.

The invisible force of current caught the Abyss Glider broadside, rolling the craft wing over

wing. Jonas pitched hard against the Lexan cone, cracking his head against the curved wind-

shield, nearly knocking himself out.

Masao Tanaka had just exited the Kiku’s bridge and started down the exterior stairwell

when the blast had shaken the listing ship. Losing his balance, he tumbled head first down the

steel steps.

“Dad!” Terry ran to her father, DeMarco right behind her. Carefully, she rolled him over

on his back, praying he hadn’t broken his neck.

His head was badly bruised, his brow swollen and bleeding. He looked up at Terry with a

far-away gaze that scared her more than his physical wounds.

“Al, we need to get a Medi-vac helicopter out here right away.”

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Steve Alten

The frigid water snapped Mac awake. Opening his eyes, he was startled to find himself

submerged upside down and underwater, the cockpit filling fast. Forcing himself to remain

calm, he located the shoulder harness release and ducked out of the open side door, kicking

toward the surface.

The power was out, the backup batteries supplying just enough juice to keep the life-

support system running.

Jonas swore to himself, then began rolling hard against the interior, gradually gaining

enough momentum to rotate the sub right side up. As he completed the maneuver, he could

feel the natural buoyancy of the glider taking over as it gradually began to rise, tail first, the

heavier nose cone dropping.

“Terry, come in. Kiku, this is Taylor, can you read me?” The radio, like everything else on

the sub, was down.

A glow loomed on his right, lighting up the interior. Jonas turned to find himself hovering

within three feet of the female’s basketball-sized pupil.

The blue eye, now a foggy cataract gray, was open. Though blind, it was staring directly at

Jonas.

The Megalodon was awake.

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CHAOS

BUD HARRIS DRAGGED HIMSELF off the bridge’s polished marble floor, unsure of what

had just taken place. The Magnate was drifting, her twin engines down. He glanced out the

tinted glass in time to see the helicopter’s blades slip beneath the waves.

“Hope you die whoever you were,” he muttered, then pressed the ON switch, attempting

to restart the engines.

Nothing happened.

“Danielson, Heller? Where the hell are you two morons?” Bud headed out on deck,

locating the two men standing by the transom.

“Well? Is the monster dead?”

Heller looked at Danielson. “Of course it’s dead … I mean, it has to be.”

“You don’t seem so certain.”

“It’s dead,” said Danielson. “We had to release the charge a little earlier than we intended

when that chopper showed up, but the blast was more than enough to kill it.”

“We really should get out of here.”

“Well, boys, that’s gonna be a bit of a problem,” Bud said, spitting over the side. “The

engines are dead. Your damn explosive apparently loosened something, and I’m not exactly

a licensed mechanic.”

“Christ, we’re stuck out here with that monster?” Heller shook his head, his jaws locked

tight.

“Frank, it’s dead. Trust me,” said Danielson. “We’ll be watching it float belly-up any second

now.”

Heller looked at his former commanding officer. “Dick, it’s a shark. It’s not going to float.

If it’s really dead, it’ll sink to the bottom.”

They turned in unison, a splashing sound to their left.

A hand appeared at the ladder, followed by Mac, who dragged himself aboard the yacht,

collapsing on a deck chair.

“Beautiful morning, isn’t it, assholes?”

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Steve Alten

Jonas lay on his stomach, his head down, his claustrophobia causing shortness of breath.

The lifeless Abyss Glider’s left mid-wing had caught on the cargo net, keeping the sub eye level

with the Megalodon. Jonas watched in fascination and horror as the female’s cataract-gray eye

continued focusing involuntarily on the tiny submersible.

She’s blind, but she still knows I’m here. Don’t move. Don’t even breathe.

The caudal fin animated, swishing in labored, side-to-side movements, propelling the

predator slowly ahead. The monstrous gill slits came into view, fluttering with labored breaths.

Still caught within the net, the Megalodon whipped its head back and forth—freeing the

Abyss Glider. The powerless submersible rose tail first as the most frightening animal on the

planet became cognizant of its surroundings.

Jonas looked down, watching the Meg. The cargo net remained ensnared around her

pectoral fins, restricting her movement. Enraged, she rolled once, then twice, twisting and

tangling herself tighter within the trap.

The Abyss Glider tossed in the Meg’s wake. The vessel spun away, causing Jonas to lose

sight of the creature. Then, as the sub’s nose cone drifted downward, he caught a glimpse of

the shark, its upper torso completely entwined in the cargo net.

“She’s going to drown,” he whispered to himself. “Thank God.”

The passengers aboard the flotilla anchored in Monterey Bay had witnessed the super-

yacht break from the group to rendezvous with the incoming guest of honor. They had seen

the helicopter intercept the vessel, only to end up crashing into the sea as the depth charge had

detonated.

The onlookers grew anxious, wondering if the underwater explosion had killed the creature

they had paid good money to see.

The owner of a cigarette racing boat gunned his engines, announcing his intentions.

Almost as one, the pleasure crafts, fishing boat owners, and tour ship captains weighed

anchor, following the speedboat out to sea, everyone determined to get a close-up look at the

captured Megalodon shark, be it dead or alive.

Nine media helicopters were hovering above the Kiku, continually shifting positions in their

attempt to gain better camera angles. The underwater explosion had created a fresh twist on

the story and for the first time in the last twenty-four hours there was actually something new

to report. Network executives ordered their helicopter crews to lower their altitudes in order

to assess whether the monster had survived.

198

THE

David Adashek was in the back of an Action News copter, straining to see over his camera-

man’s shoulder. The creature’s white hide was visible, but whether the shark was still alive was

impossible to ascertain.

The pilot tapped David’s arm, motioning him to look southeast.

Racing toward the Megalodon were dozens of boats.

From the tip of her snout to the base of her caudal fin, the Megalodon’s skin contained

fine, tooth-like prickles called dermal denticles. Sharp and sandpaper-like in texture, these

“skin teeth” channeled water as the Meg swam, but when touched from back to front they

could rip open leather, rendering the shark’s hide yet another weapon in the predator’s arsenal

of evolutionary adaptations.

As the female twisted insanely within the cargo net, the dermal denticles sawed through the

rope, slicing it to ribbons.

Jonas watched in horror as the Meg shook loose its bonds. His pulse pounded in his

throat—compounded by the deep vibrations coming from the helicopters.

Desperate, he tried the power switch again—still dead—as the monster ascended past him,

heading toward the surface to investigate.

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Steve Alten

DeMarco’s eyes widened as he saw the Megalodon surface fifty yards to starboard, the

semi-conscious creature swimming on its left side, a river of sea passing into her mouth as she

exposed her glistening white belly to him.

It was too good of a target to pass up.

DeMarco aimed the harpoon gun, then released his breath, forced to wait until a speedboat

raced by, its engines growling, its pilot completely oblivious to the fact that he had just passed

the Megalodon.

DeMarco reset himself—

The Meg was gone.

200

THE

The twenty-six-foot Boston Whaler maneuvered past two other vessels to emerge from the

pack of water craft racing out to the Kiku. Jani Harper was at the helm, her twelve-year-old

son, Collin, standing beside her in the closed convertible cockpit, urging her on. Three of her

friends were seated behind her on a vinyl wrap-around sofa, their husbands playing poker in

the cabin below.

The sun peeked over the eastern horizon, bathing the Pacific in its brilliant golden hue—

the light reflecting off the windshields of nine news helicopters that were trailing the Kiku, their

presence no doubt marking the location of the netted creature. Jani could just make out the

logo of the Tanaka Institute painted in red along the port-bow of the badly listing research

vessel laboring a quarter mile ahead.

And then Jani Harper felt the blood drain from her face as the most frightening creature

she had ever seen launched straight out of the sea behind the Kiku, its sixty thousand pound

pure-white torso glistening in the sun, its snout nearly four stories high when it struck the

landing gear of one of the low-flying news choppers.

The collision sent the helicopter careening sideways, initiating a domino effect that spiraled

outward as eight terrified pilots simultaneously attempted to maneuver out of harm’s way,

sending eight sets of rotors climbing into the same airspace.

In a state of panic, Jani Harper veered her Boston Whaler hard to port—right into the path

of another boat.

Stephanie Collins was operating her inebriated boss’s twenty-three-foot cabin cruiser. She

screamed at the Megalodon’s shocking appearance—and then she went airborne as her

employer’s boat rode up a five-foot swell and landed on top of the Boston Whaler which had

cut across her path seemingly out of nowhere.

The second wave of boaters swerved to avoid hitting the two disabled vessels, only to crash

into one another, creating pile-ups similar to a multi-vehicle accident on a snow-covered

highway, screams and swear words renting the chilly morning air.

Sweating profusely, Jonas could feel his claustrophobia building as he strained to reach the

battery connections located in the aft compartment of his sub. Blindly, he groped at the

terminals inside the rear panels, searching in vain for a loose connection.

The Kiku’s crew assembled on deck, frantically donning orange life vests.

Terry Tanaka and Robert Nash stood over the registered nurse who had replaced Frank

Heller as she tended to Masao, who was unconscious. “I can’t be sure, Terry, but I’d guess your

father fractured his skull. We need to get him to a hospital as soon as possible.”

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“At this rate we’ll have sunk before that EVAC gets here.” Terry glanced overhead at the

four remaining news copters hovering several hundred feet above the Pacific. “Robert, get on

the radio; try to get one of those news choppers to land on the Kiku. Tell them we have a

serious injury.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

David Adashek focused his binoculars on the main deck of the sinking Kiku when he saw

an Asian woman waving emphatically from the ship’s helo-deck. “Hey, I know her, that’s

Tanaka’s daughter.”

“I’m getting a distress call from the Kiku,” the pilot said. “They’re requesting we transport

an injured man to shore. Radioman says it’s Masao Tanaka. Sounds serious.”

“Land the copter,” ordered Adashek.

The cameraman looked at him with a scowl. “My producer’s screaming at me to get close-

ups of the Meg. He’ll have my balls for breakfast if we turn this chopper into a Medi-vac

helicopter and leave the scene.”

Adashek ripped the camera from the man’s grip, holding it out his open door. “Choose

now. We land or I feed this to the Meg.”

The Megalodon circled beneath the Kiku. The ship’s metal hull was generating galvanic

currents—electrical impulses that stimulated the female’s ampullae of Lorenzini like finger-

nails on a chalkboard.

The Kiku’s crew gathered around the Action News chopper as it landed on the awkwardly

tilting helipad, each sailor vying for passage off the sinking research vessel. When the men grew

increasingly violent, Leon Barre removed his concealed sidearm and fired a warning shot in

the air. “The chopper’s for Masao; the rest of you can get on board one of the life boats.”

The pilot of the news copter looked at Adashek and the cameraman. “Okay, boys, someone

has to give up his seat for the old man. Which one of you is going to play the hero?”

The cameraman looked at Adashek with an evil grin. “Hope you can swim, tough guy.”

David felt butterflies in his stomach as he exited the safety of the airship, allowing the

Kiku’s crew to load Masao on board.

Moments later, he stood on the lopsided deck, his heart in his mouth as the helicopter flew

off toward the mainland. Nice job, dumbass. You’re supposed to report the news, not be a part of

it.

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The sudden jolt rocked the Magnate, sending both men falling to the deck.

Richard Danielson stood painfully, then grabbed Frank Heller beneath his armpits and

hoisted him to his feet. “Frank, do you hear that noise? It’s the yacht’s pumps. We must be

taking on water.”

Heller looked around. “Where are Harris and Mackreides?”

“They went below to try to fix the engine. Oh, crap—”

The white dorsal fin was circling the yacht.

“Any suggestions?”

“The Zodiac …” Heller pointed to the motorized raft.

“Frank, you really want to risk taking that tiny boat out versus staying aboard the yacht?”

“The yacht’s sinking, Richard, and that tiny boat is fast. Give me a hand.”

The two men released the catches to the pulleys supporting the bulky raft. It dropped to

the surface with a muffled splat.

“You first, Frank, seeing how it was your idea.”

Heller waited until the dorsal fin circled behind the boat, then swung his leg over the rail.

Danielson followed him in.

The outboard whined to life. Heller gunned the throttle, the Zodiac skimming over waves,

accelerating to the east in the direction of land.

Danielson kept an eye on their wake, praying silently that the Megalodon would remain

with the Magnate. As the seconds turned to minutes and the yacht gradually disappeared from

the horizon he began to feel better about their decision.

“Frank, head for those boats. Maybe we can—”

The inflatable raft exploded beneath him, the concussive force of the breaching behemoth

tossing Danielson and Heller high into the air like rag dolls.

Leon Barre and Alphonse DeMarco stood by the Kiku’s port rail in ankle-deep water, the

two men watching the Zodiac race off to the east.

Seconds later they both gasped as the creature attacked from below.

“Man the lifeboats. We’ve got about five minutes before the Kiku sinks and the monster

returns.”

“Al, what about Jonas?”

“We can’t help him, Terry. Wherever he is, he’s on his own.”

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FEEDING FRENZY

RICHARD DANIELSON SURFACED, his heart racing, his chest constricting from the cold

water which, accompanied by the sheer terror of his predicament, was causing him to

hyperventilate. He had caught an inverted glance of the monster while tumbling through the

air—now he was treading water in its kill zone.

He heard voices, saw a bizarre entanglement of boats forty yards away, and swam like hell

for it.

Stephanie Collins stood in the bow of her boss’s boat. The twenty-three-foot cabin cruiser

was completely out of the water, rendered immobile by the larger Boston Whaler it was now

using as a dry dock.

Between knowing the Megalodon was still on the loose and potentially very close, moving

the Whaler’s wounded onto their boat, and dealing with her irate boss, she was about to lose

it.

Screw him. He doesn’t pay me enough to handle his crap. And why’d I have to be the one to

drive his stupid boat—is it my fault he had too much to drink?

The collective weight of the cabin cruiser and its wounded passengers had pushed the

whaler three feet underwater, but the vessel was still quite buoyant. The boat’s owner, Jani

Harper stood in water up to her knees with her twelve-year-old son and eight volunteers from

the two boats, all attempting to push the cabin cruiser back into the water. The task was

proving impossible with so many people weighing Michael Roddy’s boat down, and yet no one

seemed to want to climb off the perched vessel.

And then, without warning, the Megalodon had breached fifty yards to the north, flipping

over a motorized raft.

The creature’s proximity sent the volunteers scrambling back onto the cabin cruiser like rats

fleeing a sinking ship—only every square foot of deck was now occupied by the Whaler’s

wounded, and the additional weight was causing the boat to teeter.

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Michael Roddy, the boat’s owner, was losing it. “Stephanie, what the hell were you

thinking? Get these drunks off my boat so our people can get back on.”

“Sir, they’re hurt.”

“And their blood is attracting the Meg.” He pointed over her shoulder.

She turned to see one of the men from the raft swimming in their direction—followed by

a five-foot wake and seven foot dorsal fin. “Oh, God, everybody move to the center of the

boat—”

Richard Danielson felt the wave overtake him. As it rolled over his head his feet struck a

solid object, causing him to tuck his legs to his chest.

Looking down, he saw an alabaster island rise beneath him, the Megalodon’s head as wide

as a bus, its hide as coarse as concrete. For a brief second of insanity he found himself

straddling the creature’s snout before he toppled backward into the sea.

The Megalodon’s nose rose out of the water, its upper jaw jutting away from its skull, the

horrendous bite slamming down on empty sea a second before the blind behemoth’s head

struck the two boats.

The impact freed the stacked vessels. It also tossed a dozen passengers into the Pacific,

igniting a feeding frenzy.

The tail assembly of the powerless Abyss Glider bobbed just below the surface, its heavier

nose cone pointing straight down at the ocean floor.

Jonas was standing upright in the minisub, his feet balancing on the shoulder harness while

he worked on the battery. Drenched in sweat, he had located the severed wire and had

managed to peel away a section of rubber insulation. Carefully, he wrapped the exposed copper

lead around the battery terminal and twisted the rusty wing nut into place—his actions

generating an encouraging spark.

Twisting his body upside down, he slid back into the pilot’s prone position, the blood

rushing to his head. “Okay, baby, give daddy some juice.”

He pressed the power button and was rewarded by the hum of the engine and a blast of

cool air from the ventilation system. The revolving propeller leveled out the sub and Jonas

quickly directed it to the surface.

He looked around, realizing he had drifted with the current.

A few pings from sonar revealed the Kiku and Magnate; the ships located a half mile to the

north. But it was the activity to the east that caught his attention.

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The Megalodon may have lost its sense of vision, but the predator was far from blind. It

could “see” its prey by the electrical impulses generated by their beating hearts, it could feel

the vibrations of their churning muscles. Moreover, it could determine the weak from the

strong by gauging the rapidity of its quarry’s pulse, the efficiency of their movements, and the

telltale scent of blood in the water.

To the Meg, the passengers thrown from the two boats were bizarre fish—their low fat

content rendering them poor eating. At the same time they were easily consumed, requiring a

low expenditure of energy, as opposed to taking on an adult whale. And they were now plentiful.

A methodical hunter, the creature knew to incapacitate the largest, strongest members of

the pack first.

Michael Roddy may have been drunk, but the big man was still a good swimmer. Pushing

his way past flailing arms and churning legs, he reached the aluminum ladder of his boat ahead

of the others. Gripping a sun-warmed rung, he attempted to pull himself out of the

water—only to discover that both his legs had been severed at the knees!

Dangling from the ladder by his arms, he screamed for help, his lower torso surrounded by

a spreading pool of blood.

Richard Danielson was less than three feet from the Boston Whaler when his upper torso

suddenly ignited with the insane sensation of a hundred surgeons’ scalpels slicing his gut into

ribbons. The blood drained from his face and neck, the soul from his body, before the

horrendous agony of being bitten in half ever had a chance to register as a last fleeting thought.

The Megalodon circled its feast from below, targeting its next prey—

Ping.

Ping … ping … ping.

The powerful burst of sound energy coming from the approaching Abyss Glider irritated

the massive shark. Associating the high frequency echo with the Nautilus, the creature

pinpointed the source, going after its challenger.

Jonas soared seventy feet below a surface tainted by two rapidly spreading pools of blood

churned by a dozen or more people attempting to swim toward two boats.

The Meg’s been busy … where is she?

Going active on sonar, he discovered the monster was bull-rushing him from below!

Accelerating to twenty knots, he maneuvered out of harm’s way, the Meg chasing after him,

forcing him to increase his speed.

Where to go? The lagoon’s still too far away to maintain its interest. Better get back to the Kiku

and let DeMarco drug it again.

Executing a wide turn, he altered his course, heading north.

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Frank Heller had managed to swim to the Boston Whaler. Too weak to drag himself up the

ladder, he clung to the side of the fishing boat, his eyes closed as he waited for death.

Minutes passed.

“Hey!”

Frank looked up, staring into the eyes of a twelve-year-old boy.

“My mom says we’re leaving. She said either get your ass in the boat or get it bitten off.”

“I c-c-c-can’t move.”

Collin Harper signaled to someone. A moment later a large hand reached over the side and

grabbed hold of Frank Heller’s life vest, dragging him out of the water.

The two-hundred-and-seventy-four-foot long research vessel rolled to port and kept rolling,

the Kiku’s flooded hull finally pulling her beneath the waves.

Twenty-three crew members and David Adashek were packed into two lifeboats, the

outboard motors of which remained dormant in fear that the disturbance might alert the

monster.

Leon Barre had tears in his eyes as he watched the bow of his command slide silently into

the Pacific. Terry Tanaka used the captain’s binoculars to scan the surface for any sign of the

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Steve Alten

Abyss Glider. David Adashek was visibly shaking, praying quietly, as were many of the

crewmen, while Alphonse DeMarco waited for the albino monster to reappear, a loaded Colt

.45 held in his quivering right hand.

“Terry, let me see the glasses.”

She handed them to the captain, who focused in on the two boats now racing back to shore.

“Sum bitch, do we start the motors or wait? Could be the Meg is following those boats. Maybe

now would be the best time for us to leave. What do you think, DeMarco?”

“How fast can these boats get us to land?”

“Overloaded like we are? Twenty-five … maybe thirty minutes.”

DeMarco pinched the bridge of his nose, massaging out some of the tension. “I don’t know.

Jonas said this creature can feel the vibrations of an engine. Maybe we should wait, let the

Megalodon clear the area.”

“And what if it doesn’t?” Robert Nash asked. “You expect us to just sit here and wait to

get eaten alive like D.J.? Sorry, Terry, but I didn’t sign on to this mission to end up as bait.”

Murmurs of agreement.

“Okay, we take a vote,” Leon Barre said. “All those who want to start the engines raise

your hands.”

All but two crewmen and Terry agreed.

“Okay then. Al, you follow me. We gonna head south away from those last two boats … just

in case, then we turn east. Might take a bit longer but it’s safer.”

The two motors coughed to life, spewing thick clouds of carbon monoxide.

Terry used the binoculars, scanning the horizon.

Suddenly she stood, pointing to a five-foot wake heading in their direction, chasing an

object running along the surface like a torpedo. “It’s Jonas!”

Leon swore. “Sum bitch … he’s bringing the monster right to us.”

Jonas surfaced. He saw Bud Harris’s yacht in the distance, but could not locate the Kiku.

Sonar found it sinking a hundred and ninety feet below the Pacific. Escorting the research

vessel into the depths, he prayed no one was aboard—momentarily forgetting about the

creature—his sonar warning him a split-second before he was nudged from behind with the

force of a train tapping a Volkswagen Beetle.

Pulling back on his joystick, Jonas launched the Glider into a steep ascent, the minisub

shooting out of the Pacific like a marlin being chased by Moby Dick. From his vantage he

spotted the Kiku’s two lifeboats heading east a moment before his vessel plunged belly-first

back into the sea.

He descended quickly, his head on a swivel as he searched for the Meg. Unable to locate

the creature, he engaged three more pings, waiting for the sound waves to return a reflected

echo.

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THE

To his horror, the battery gauge suddenly dropped from 63% in the mid-green range all the

way to 17% in the lower orange zone, the indicator very close to the red warning area.

Before he could react, the Megalodon appeared on his sonar monitor. The monstrous shark

had changed course and was now chasing after the two lifeboats.

Damn it, Jonas … what have you done?

The two lifeboats were just over three miles from shore when the alabaster dorsal fin rose

out of the sea fifty yards behind Alphonse DeMarco’s boat, its presence sending waves of panic

among the Kiku’s crew.

From the lead boat, Leon Barre frantically signaled to DeMarco to separate.

Barre turned south.

DeMarco continued to the east.

The Megalodon submerged.

Terrifying seconds passed; the two boatloads of survivors knowing the monster had

descended to attack one of them from below.

“Faster … go faster—”

“No, keep zig-zagging!”

A concussive explosion became a gyroscope of brilliant blue sky, flailing bodies, and a

towering white silo, all of which terminated with a shock of frigid water as DeMarco’s boat was

blasted apart from below.

Eleven men and a woman plunged into the sea. Seven heads broke the surface, gagging and

moaning in pain, floating in their life jackets among fragments of wood that, seconds before,

had been a lifeboat. Three crewmen—Alphonse DeMarco among them—bobbed in their life

vests along the surface, unconscious. Two were dead. Sonar tech Robert Nash and crewman

Chad Shahriyar had been seated on the bench absorbing most of the Megalodon’s kinetic

energy. Their spines had shattered on impact, their limbs torn away from their bodies.

Ten beating hearts remained.

Ten dinner bells.

The sixty-foot prehistoric shark circled its killing field, its dorsal fin slicing through three

foot seas as its owner sized up her next meal. The creature’s sheer mass caught the unconscious

DeMarco within its current, towing him along as the Meg homed in on a flailing body.

Petrified, Terry froze as the Megalodon surfaced, heading straight for her and one of the

Kiku’s cooks. Rolling onto its side, the monster opened its mouth, creating a vacuum which

inhaled the screaming chef into its gullet.

“Oh, God … oh my God,” cried Adashek. The terrified reporter attempted to drown

himself by gulping seawater, only to puke.

With a bluster of coughs, Alphonse DeMarco opened his eyes. Unaware of where he was

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Steve Alten

or what was happening, he started swimming toward Terry.

“Al, stay there. Don’t swim … don’t even move.”

Terry fought to catch her breath as the Meg’s gargantuan head broke the surface twenty

feet away, revealing the peppered-black ampullae of Lorenzini beneath its hideous snout. A

pink band of upper gums widened, exposing a row of massive triangular teeth rooted in its

upper jaw, the human flesh from its last snack still caught between several fangs.

Terry gritted her teeth, tears in her eyes as she readied herself for a gruesome end to her

life. “Bitch … I should have drowned you when I had the chance.”

The Abyss Glider leapt out of sea behind her, momentarily blotting out the sun before the

six-hundred-and-fifty-pound submersible and its pilot landed on the Megalodon’s snout, blood

spurting from its wounded left nostril.

The AG-I stalled for a brief second. The moment its propeller caught water, Jonas

slammed his palms down on both joysticks, whipping the minisub hard to port and away from

the snapping jaws.

Like a mad bull, the Megalodon plunged below the waves to give chase.

The Glider’s dying battery was costing him at least ten knots of speed, allowing the Meg

to gain on him.

Where to go?

Lead her away from Terry, away from the others.

Jonas felt a bump from behind as the shark rammed his minisub’s tail fin.

Banking hard to starboard, he shot to the surface, altering his angle of ascent a few seconds

before the Abyss Glider corkscrewed out of the water like a Spinner dolphin—

—the leaping Megalodon right behind it, its jaws snapping empty air.

The predator flopped blindly back into the ocean, its thunderous splash rivaling that of the

largest humpback whale. Unable to relocate the Abyss Glider, the Meg descended, searching

for the telltale vibrations of its prey.

Terrified but suddenly given a survivor’s chance in Hell, Terry watched as a large trawler

appeared in the distance.

It had taken a wad of cash and a signed agreement from Andre Dupont guaranteeing the

Cousteau Society would pay for any damages to his trawler before the fishing boat captain

agreed to head out to sea to rescue the Kiku’s crew.

They had reached the crew aboard Leon Barre’s lifeboat first, the Kiku’s captain directing

them to where their shipmates had been tossed into the sea. Several minutes later they arrived

at the gruesome scene—nine survivors floating in life jackets, the Meg nowhere in sight.

Terry Tanaka was pulled on board first. She tried to stand but the stress had sapped her

strength and she collapsed on deck. David Adashek vomited from the stress. Alphonse

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THE

DeMarco and several other shipmates fell to their knees, all thanking their maker for sparing

their lives.

The Abyss Glider was powerless, the last leap having depleted the batteries, the indicator

clearly in the red. Jonas’s heart pounded as the Megalodon descended, searching for his craft.

It was eerily quiet, save for the sound of water lapping against the sub’s buoyant tail

assembly and its pilot’s labored breathing.

A sickening feeling overcame him as the Lexan nose cone gradually dropped, the glider’s

horizontal status changing to an inverted vertical plane, causing the blood to rush to Jonas’s

head.

This isn’t happening …

Jonas stared into the deep blue depths, the blood pounding in his temples, his hands

trembling.

Get out of the sub, J.T. Do something different … change the dream. Move, damn you!

But he couldn’t move—he was paralyzed in fear … defenseless. All he could do was stare

at the flickering beams of sunlight filtering below, waiting for the angel of death to reappear.

And then Masao’s words came back to him. “If you know the enemy and know yourself, you

need not fear the result of a hundred battles.”

“I know my enemy,” he said aloud.

His hands shook as he deliberated.

Sometimes the best defense is a good offense. Do it, J.T. Don’t wait for the Meg to attack, bring

the fight to her.

Reaching to the sonar array, he pushed the active button, the sub’s dead battery releasing

one final, fading PING.

At four hundred feet she appeared … the stark white face, the satanic grin. It was seven

years ago and he was back on the Sea Cliff … it was seven hours ago and he had dreamt this

very moment—a premonition warning him about his impending, gruesome death.

Acceptance comes when there are no other options.

Two hundred feet.

Jonas reached forward with his right hand and grasped the lever, turning it counter-

clockwise.

One hundred feet …

The Megalodon’s mouth hyperextended open.

Now.

Jonas bellowed a guttural, primordial yell as he pulled the lever back, instantly igniting the

hydrogen fuel, transforming the powerless Abyss Glider into a rocket, blasting it straight down

through the Megalodon’s open gullet past fluttering gill slits and an archway of cartilaginous

ribs before disappearing down a widening dark orifice into gelid blackness.

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HELL

ANDRE DUPONT STOOD BY the fishing trawler’s port rail, watching in awe and more than

a bit of trepidation as the most fearsome animal ever to inhabit the planet ravaged the surface

of the ocean a hundred and thirty yards to the east, the creature in obvious pain.

Terry approached the scientist, wrapped in a wool blanket, tears streaming down her

cheeks. She had seen the fuel ignite, knew what Jonas had done. At that moment, she realized

how deep her feelings had been for him … and now, like her brother, he was gone.

Leon Barre was arguing with the fishing trawler’s owner in the pilothouse, warning him that

the boat’s engines would attract the monster. The older man swore at Barre, swore at Dupont,

but decided it might be best to shut down the motor.

The Megalodon’s digestive system was relatively short but infinitely flexible. After food

entered its gullet, it passed through the esophagus where it reached a sphincter, a contractile

ring of muscle that regulated what could and could not pass into the stomach. Almost

everything that could pass through did, processed by powerful acids secreted from the stomach

lining.

The Meg’s stomach represented twenty percent of its entire girth. The muscular walls of

the organ contained longitudinal folds which allowed it to expand or contract like an accordion.

Another sphincter guarded the duodenum—the beginning of the small intestine. Located

inside the duodenum were a series of folds known as the spiral valve. Similar in shape to a

corkscrew, the spiral valve rotated within the Meg’s small intestine like a Slinky, providing an

immense absorption area for the shark to maximize the nutrients of its meal.

The unusual shape of the organ also served another purpose—anything that could not be

properly digested could be regurgitated. During this violent act, the shark’s stomach actually

turned inside-out so that it protruded from the creature’s mouth like a pinkish balloon,

evacuating the contents of its digestive system to the sea.

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The flames emitted from the Abyss Glider’s hydrogen burn had blistered the female’s gill

arches. Circling rapidly, the Megalodon’s jaws heaved open in a sudden, violent spasm, its

insides attempting to vomit the eight-foot capsule from its stomach.

Jonas was slammed back into consciousness, the escape pod heaving in darkness, flipping

again and again as the Megalodon’s involuntary muscles attempted to regurgitate the capsule

back out through its esophagus. But the opening was too narrow, the glider’s nose unable to

align correctly with the spasming sphincter. After a dozen attempts, the spiral valve retreated,

the escape pod settling within its alien, pitch black confines.

Jonas trembled in the darkness, his hands searching through a zippered pouch by his left

leg. Locating the flashlight, he aimed the powerful beam out the Lexan nosecone.

“Oh, Jesus … oh, God.”

The light revealed the blistering pink insides of an organ swirling with partially-digested

muck. Thick, hot, fist-sized chunks of mutilated whale blubber slapped across the acrylic cone.

Jonas felt queasy, and yet he couldn’t stop himself from looking. He could discern the remains

of a porpoise’s head, a sneaker, several pieces of wood, and then something that made him gag.

It was the upper torso of a human. The face was badly burned from stomach acid but it was

still recognizable …

Danielson.

Jonas’s belly gurgled, his scream cut off by the rising vomit. The walls closed in upon him,

and he convulsed in fear. The sub shifted hard to one side, rolling with the sloshing remains

of Taylor’s former commanding officer as the host descended into the depths, attempting to

quash its pain.

Bud Harris stood in ankle-deep water in his yacht’s engine room, waiting impatiently while

the chopper pilot who had attacked his vessel ran a compression test on one of the motors,

“You’ve been at this long enough, Mackreides. What’s the verdict?”

Mac wiped grease on his damp jumpsuit’s pant leg. “You’ve got no compression coming

from your cylinders. The explosion must have damaged your head gasket.”

“Can you fix it?”

“Not under these circumstances. Tell you what; if we live through this I’ll give you a coupon

for five free quarts of oil with your next engine.”

“You’re a funny guy. Restart the pump, funny man.”

Mac flipped the toggle switch. The pump churned, vibrating the entire vessel as seawater

was forcibly expelled from the floor of the engine room.

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Steve Alten

“Kind of loud, isn’t it Harris? According to the husband of your former lover, noises like

this could actually attract the Meg.”

Mac turned to find himself staring at the business end of a .44 Magnum.

Bud pointed the gun at Mac’s head. “Let’s head out on deck and see if Jonas was right.”

Jonas struggled to breathe, his nerves trembling amid horrific scenes of human carnage the

likes of which could not be imagined. This was beyond claustrophobia, this was hell.

“Stop it! You’re alive … you can reason. Find a way out.”

He forced himself to slow his breathing, then used the flashlight to check the hydrogen fuel

gauge.

Thirty-seven percent left … maybe enough for a five second burst. It’s not enough to burn my

way out, but I bet I can give it some serious indigestion.

He located the lever, held his breath, and pulled.

Nothing.

He pulled again and again, but was unable to ignite the remaining fuel.

Okay, okay, stay calm. There’s fuel in the tank, the igniter must have come loose.

Releasing his harness, he twisted around in the escape pod, aiming the light outside the

craft at the remains of the glider’s tail assembly.

Sure enough, the hose connecting the igniter switch with the external tank had been pulled

loose.

A calm resolve began to settle over Jonas. He had a plan—a lottery chance at surviving an

impossible circumstance, but it was there, and it was more than Maggie had, more than

Danielson.

Relax, J.T. It’s just a walk in the park.

Rolling onto his side, he opened

the two storage compartments below

his hammock and removed the dive

mask attached to a small pony bottle

of air. He secured the mask to his

face, then twisted open the cylinder,

making sure he could breathe nor-

mally. Locating a pair of rubber

gloves, he slipped them on to protect

his hands.

He was ready.

Flipping around, he unscrewed

the escape hatch, the rubber housing

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THE

hissing as it lost its suction. Pushing the circular Lexan door open, he poked his head out of the

opening, shining the flashlight into the darkness.

The minisub was lying in a confined chamber of smooth muscle with no discernible top or

bottom. Caustic digestive excretions designed to break down food into fuel were being secreted

from an unknown source. Though he could not tell through the breathing mask, the smell had

to be overwhelming.

Jonas crawled out of the glider, closing the hatch behind him. His rubber boots touched

down on the stomach lining, giving him the sensation of stepping on a surface of molten putty.

A thick hydrochloric acid oozed from unseen pores.

Wasting no time, he turned his attention to the sub’s tail assembly.

Bud Harris pushed the barrel of the gun to the back of Mac’s neck, forcing him up the steps

and out to the main deck.

“Heller? Danielson?”

Mac pointed. “The Zodiac’s gone. Looks like you chose the wrong bedfellows.”

“I don’t give a damn about those two idiots. That monster destroyed my life, took the one

person I truly cared for. It continues to haunt me, preventing me from sleeping, preventing me

from living. I could have ended some of that torture today, only you had to interfere.”

Bud stepped back, motioning for Mac to walk toward the starboard rail. “Go ahead.”

“Go ahead and what?”

“You wanted to save this monster, now you can feed it.” Bud fired the Magnum, the bullet

striking Mac in his right quadriceps muscle, blood oozing from the wound.

Mac collapsed to one knee in agony. “Are you crazy?”

“I want you off my boat. Get back in the water and bleed or I’ll shoot you in the other leg.”

Mac moved to the rail. He climbed over gingerly, attempting to stall. “This is called murder.

You know what they do with murderers in the state of California, Richie Rich? They lock them

up with guys like Charles Manson.”

“Only the poor ones.” Bud aimed the barrel of the gun at Mac’s head. “Jump in or die.”

Mac jumped.

Bud waited for him to surface. “Now start swimming.”

Mac eyed the horizon—spotting a fishing trawler half a mile to the east.

Might as well be a million miles away …

The captain of the fishing trawler had seen enough. The Megalodon was gone, and the

Frenchman, his female assistant, and the Filipino boat captain could go screw themselves.

Restarting his vessel’s engines, he headed for shore.

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The female moved just beneath the thermocline, the colder, deeper water cooling the

burning sensation within its inflamed gullet. Agitated, she attacked every motion that attracted

her senses … a passing school of fish, a sea lion—

The surface vibrations sent ripples coursing along her lateral line. Locking onto the new

stimulus, the Meg ascended in a steep vertical climb, targeting the disturbance.

Jonas managed to reattach the igniter hose to the hydrogen fuel tank when his feet were

pulled out from under him as the Megalodon rose to the surface, its stomach rolling ninety

degrees, catching him in an avalanche of partially-digested refuse.

Suddenly, he was sliding feet-first down a steep incline rendered slick by an abundance of

whale oil. The undigested contents of the Meg’s stomach piled up beneath and all around him.

Aiming the light below, he saw to his horror that the muck was slowly draining down a three-

foot-in-diameter expanding orifice.

The intestines! Get sucked down there and you’re a goner.

Rolling onto his belly, he fought to stop his momentum, but was simply unable to establish

a handhold on the oil-slick surface.

Making matters worse, the Abyss Glider

was now on top of him, riding him down the

slope.

A sickening feeling overcame him as he

felt his feet enter the slime-covered sphincter

all the way up to his knees. Desperate, he tore

open the chest-pouch of his bio-suit and

removed the six-and-a-half inch Megalodon

tooth. Gripping it by its root, he stabbed it

into the stomach lining above his head,

praying it would hold.

The sharp point pierced the thick surface,

the tooth’s serrated edges forging a grip.

Hip-deep in the intestinal opening, Jonas

stopped sliding.

The rest of the avalanche of undigested

human flesh, whale oil and blubber did not,

burying him alive. He held on as long as he

could, the escape pod’s weight pressing down

on the back of his arm and skull, pinning him

against the stomach lining.

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Wrapped in a blanket, Terry stood alone by the port rail weeping for Jonas, when the

fishing trawler’s keel was suddenly struck from below, the bone-jarring impact rolling the boat

thirty degrees to port, tossing her into the sea.

Jonas was about to lose his grip on the tooth when his surroundings went topsy-turvy again

as the Megalodon descended, the hot wave of refuse washing over him like a receding tide.

For a bizarre moment he hung suspended upside-down, the sphincter muscle guarding the

creature’s intestines still suctioned tightly around his knees. But his bio-suit was drenched in

whale oil and the lubricant, combined with his weight, was too much.

Jonas slipped free, plunging fifteen feet to the opposite end of the stomach, landing in a

soft, molten pile of goop, his gloved hands fighting to keep from losing the flashlight and Meg

tooth pinned against his chest.

The sub was close by, lying on its side. Regaining his feet, he gripped the Abyss Glider by

its tail fins and managed to roll it back onto its belly.

Gasping deep breaths, Jonas rested against the damaged chassis, making sure the igniter

hose was still connected to the hydrogen tank. He must have been anatomically close to the

Megalodon’s pectoral fins because he could feel the shark swimming, its side-to-side action

orientating him to his surroundings. Turning to his left faced him forward in the direction of

the Meg’s head, which meant the esophageal opening had to be close.

Using his light, he located the sphincter designed to prevent food from escaping the

stomach.

The idea came to him in an instant. Slogging through the refuse, Jonas pocketed the tooth,

then reached beneath the escape pod and gripped the minisub’s mechanical arm, using it as

a handle to drag the Abyss Glider through the waist-deep muck to the esophageal valve.

Jonas tried to push his hand through to the other side but the muscle was far too strong,

the seal too tight. He checked the pony bottle—only four minutes of air remained.

Somehow he had to pierce the gauntlet …

Reaching again for the Megalodon tooth, he used the serrated edges like a saw, the million-

year-old fossil slicing surprisingly easily into the soft tissue.

Terry surfaced, shocked to see the trawler drifting sixty feet away from her. Having

relinquished her life jacket, it was all she could do to free herself of the wet wool blanket and

stay afloat.

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Andre Dupont was yelling at her. “… engine is down, you have to swim!”

Mac was halfway between the yacht and the fishing trawler when he saw the wave rolling

toward him, the triangular white dorsal fin appearing a moment later.

He stopped swimming, the intense pounding in his chest accompanied by the deep vibra-

tions of the Coast Guard helicopter approaching from the south.

“Okay, Lord, how’s this for a deal: You rescue my sorry ass and I promise to ease up on the

booze.”

The wake rolled over Mac’s head. He floundered underwater, fighting through the power-

ful current—and then he was free.

The Meg wasn’t interested in the small creature bleeding along the surface; it was obviously

wounded and required little effort to devour. What had lured it back to the yacht was the

sound of the Magnate’s pumps.

Shooting past Mac, the Megalodon circled the sinking ship.

Bud stood in the Magnate’s bow, the gun in one hand, a bottle of vodka in the other. He

took a long draught, tossed the pint in the sea, then aimed at the towering fin and fired,

blasting two bloody holes into the albino hide.

“How do you like that, shark? You want more? I’ve got two full clips; come and get it!”

Holding the handgun steady with two hands, he fired round after round into the beast’s

submerged back.

It took a few passes for the Megalodon’s senses to recognize the familiar pattern of

electrical impulses discharged by the yacht. Associating the strange creature with the excru-

ciating pain that had cost it its eyesight, the predator went deep, heading back to the fishing

trawler.

Believing the monster was preparing to ram his yacht, Bud Harris panicked.

Drunk, depressed, and suddenly quite terrified of meeting the same horrible fate as his

lover, the millionaire shoved the gun into his mouth and pulled the trigger, blasting the back

of his head open like a ripe watermelon.

Mac saw the returning wake and knew he was a dead man. “Okay, God, you win. How

about this—no more sleeping with married women.”

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He jumped as the harness fell on top of him. Looking up, he was amazed to see the rescue

chopper’s silhouette hovering eighty feet overhead. Slipping his right arm in the harness, he

frantically signaled to the crew to pull him out of the water.

He rose from the sea as the wake passed beneath him, his presence disappearing from the

Megalodon’s senses.

A minute later he was helped inside the open bay doors into the helicopter.

A cute brunette in her mid-thirties stood by with a medical kit. “Lieutenant Phyllis Jelley,

I’m a medic. It looks like you’ve been shot.”

“Feels like it too.”

“Lie down, please. Joe, I’ll need some towels and an antibiotic.”

“Is this a test?”

“Excuse me?”

“You’re married, right?”

“Please sit down; you’re bleeding all over the cabin.”

“Maybe you’d better just leave the bullet in me.”

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Steve Alten

Down to his last seconds of air, with the beam of his flashlight fading fast, Jonas struggled

to complete the last side of the triangular incision. Bearing down on the fossil, he sawed

through the tough muscle and pushed his hand through the opening, releasing a current of

seawater.

Slogging through waist-deep refuse, he fought his way back to the tail section of the Abyss

Glider and forcibly shoved the minisub’s nose into the hole, his effort aided by the slime

coating the exterior of the craft. He managed to push the vessel halfway inside the severed

muscle when everything started spinning.

You’re out of air. Get inside the pod before you black out.

He dropped to his knees and yanked open the hatch, crawling inside the glider as the

Megalodon suddenly descended.

The Abyss Glider rolled into the shark’s esophagus clear up to its tail fin before jamming

in place.

Jonas tore the mask from his face, sucking in deep breaths of air as he sealed the hatch. His

bio-suit reeked of whale oil, the rubber shredding in his gloved hands from the prolonged

exposure with the acidic stomach bile. Quickly, he climbed into the glider’s harness, then

looked out the nosecone, shocked by the new view.

The Megalodon’s gullet was dark, save for a pair of fluttering deep blue gill slits and the

beckoning sliver of daylight outside of the shark’s open mouth.

Jonas felt the minisub sliding backwards into the stomach as the Megalodon rose once

more on a near-vertical ascent.

Reaching for the emergency lever, he ignited the hydrogen.

The fishing trawler’s captain had just finished replacing the last of the engine’s shattered

spark plugs when his first mate yelled out from his post at the fish finder.

“Skipper, it’s back! Four hundred and thirty feet and rising like a missile straight for our

hull.”

“Restart engines—all ahead full.”

“What about the girl?”

Terry Tanaka was twenty feet from the fishing trawler when the boat’s engines suddenly

growled to life. Putting her head down in the water, she swam as hard as she could—her eyes

widening underwater as a fireball ignited from the depths.

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The igniter switch sparked the remaining fuel in the Abyss Glider’s hydrogen tank, the

flame in turn igniting the flammable whale oil within the Megalodon’s stomach.

Jonas held on as the minisub shot through the darkness like a bullet before coming to a

sudden halt between the creature’s partially-opened jaws, the points of its upper and lower

rows of teeth raking deep tracks in the escape pod’s thick Lexan glass.

A split-second later the female regurgitated the charred remains of its stomach, expelling

the scorched organ and the Abyss Glider into the sea. The ballooning black mass burst into a

bright crimson lake of blood.

“Thank you, God, thank you …” His body trembled with relief as the pod continued to rise

away from the dead beast, the numbers on his depth gauge dropping steadily.

Cold sweat dripped down his skull and the back of his neck. Jonas rolled over to look at the

sun-drenched aqua-blue surface three hundred and twenty feet above him.

Then he noticed the deep grooves in the Lexan—the incisions created by the monster’s

teeth were leaking seawater into the escape pod.

The fishing trawler circled Terry, its captain forced by the crew of the Kiku to return.

Alphonse DeMarco tossed her a life ring. She reached for it as gouts of blood began pooling

around her body.

“Terry—”

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Steve Alten

“Al, it’s okay, it’s the Meg’s blood. I saw a fireball. Jonas must have ignited the rest of his

hydrogen tank.”

“He’s still alive?”

“Get me a mask and snorkel.”

“Terry—”

“Just do it!”

DeMarco located a snorkel and mask and tossed them to her. She pulled the mask over her

head, positioned the mouthpiece, and peered below.

The escape pod’s ascent slowed as it took on water.

Below, the Megalodon continued sinking into the depths, trailing a river of blood. Jonas

watched until the albino creature disappeared from view. He had escaped certain death twice,

but to survive this day he still needed one more miracle.

Physically and mentally drained, lying in three inches of water, Jonas held his palms to as

many leaks as he could. He stared helplessly at the depth gauge as it dropped below 270-feet,

his mind calculating.

You’re rising about forty feet per minute with three inches of water, adding another inch every

minute or so. Got to at least make it within a hundred feet of the surface before you abandon ship

… a hundred and twenty feet at the most. If you lose ten feet of rise with every inch of water …

“I’m not going to make it.”

Twisting around to face the escape hatch, Jonas began breathing slowly and deeply,

attempting to expand his lungs as much as he could. He removed his rubber boots, then,

locating the face mask, he detached the empty pony bottle.

He glanced over his shoulder as the water rose past his chest.

One-ninety … one-eighty … one seventy …

The pod slowed, barely rising.

Don’t let it start to sink. Anticipate and get out quickly.

“Terry, get out of the damn water now,” DeMarco demanded.

Terry ignored him, keeping her face down in the water, breathing through the snorkel. The

Megalodon was dead, that she knew. But her heart told her that Jonas had survived.

Andre Dupont felt dazed and depressed. All his efforts to save the creature—the lobbying,

the expense—all for naught. The greatest predator of all time … lost.

“I could have died today,” he whispered to himself. “For what? To save my killer? What

would the Cousteau Society tell my wife and children? ‘Ah, Marie, you should be a proud widow.

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Andre died in the most noble of fashions, giving his life to feed an endangered species.’ ”

Dupont stood, stretching his sore back. The morning sun reflected sparks on the water.

That was when he sighted the fin.

“Hey … get the girl out of the water!”

The bone-chilling Pacific reached Jonas’s chest, the additional weight slowing the minisub’s

ascent to a crawl. He shivered in his bio-suit, afraid to move, then glanced at the depth gauge

as the pod stopped rising.

One hundred and forty-two feet.

Inhaling a deep breath, he fixed the mask to his face and twisted open the rear hatch.

The two-foot-tall dorsal fin circled the fishing trawler. Eleven men as one screamed for

Terry to get out of the water.

“That’s a great white,” yelled Philip Prousnitzer. “Terry, it’s homing in on the Meg’s blood,

you need to come aboard!”

The trawler’s captain went below and returned with a shotgun. The dorsal fin circled the

girl. The captain took aim.

Terry surface dived, disappearing below the waves.

The shark followed.

It had taken precious seconds to pull himself free of the sinking pod. Starting toward the

surface, he took long, easy strokes and kicks, counting backwards by three from a hundred and

fifty. The pressure in his ears and sinus cavity was overwhelming, and he realized he could not

pinch his nose to equalize while wearing the face mask.

Pulling it off, he squeezed his nostrils together and blew air into his cheeks, the pressure

easing his pain.

By the time he reached a hundred and twenty feet, Jonas’s muscles felt like lead.

Just a walk in the park …

Eighty feet—he could no longer feel his legs.

Don’t … stop.

At fifty-eight feet, the periphery of his vision became clouded by darkness.

At thirty-three feet, Jonas Taylor lost consciousness.

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Steve Alten

Terry grabbed her man by his right wrist as his body began slipping back into the depths.

She kicked hard, pulling water with her left hand, using her right hand to pinch Jonas’s nose

and keep his mouth clamped shut. She felt the shark circling closer and swam harder.

As her face broke the surface, Terry pulled Jonas’s head free of the ocean. His lips were

blue and he wasn’t breathing. She attempted to level him out to blow a few precious mouthfuls

of air into his mouth as the dorsal fin surfaced eight feet away, the juvenile predator over-

stimulated by all the blood in the water.

The fishing boat shot past Terry, its trawl net scooping up the shark as it launched its attack

on Jonas.

Terry waited anxiously for the boat to circle back. Ninety long seconds passed before it

returned; Jonas’s pulse dangerously weak.

I’m losing him …

A minute later they were sprawled out on deck, Terry giving him more effective breaths

without any results.

She pulled away as Jonas vomited a lungful of seawater. His blue complexion faded to

white, then red.

Terry was teary-eyed and all smiles as he opened his eyes. “Are you all right?”

He nodded. “Just … a bad case of indigestion.”

He winced as invisible pins and needles stabbed his blood vessels.

“Jonas?”

“Nitrogen bubbles …”

“Try not to move. We’re en route to the lagoon. We have a recompression chamber on site.”

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The young shark thrashed back and forth within the trawl net. Andre Dupont followed the

captain into the pilothouse, attempting to reason with him. “Captain, you can’t kill it,” the

Frenchman pleaded. “great whites are a protected species.”

“Look at my boat. She’s busted up. I’ll kill this fish, stuff it, and sell it to some tourist from

New York for twenty thousand. You gonna give me that much, Frenchy?”

Dupont rolled his eyes. “Good luck in prison.”

Ten minutes later they arrived in the deep canyon waters located just outside the Tanaka

Lagoon’s canal entry. The giant steel doors had been left open for the Kiku.

The trawler entered the canal.

Jonas moaned, his head in Terry’s lap. Every joint in his body was on fire, his muscles

consumed with stabbing pains. “How much farther?”

“We’re entering the canal. Medical personnel are waiting for us. We’ll have you in a

hyperbaric chamber in three minutes.”

He looked up at her. “I love you.”

“And I love you.”

The pain increased; he was dizzy, nauseous. His felt as if the Megalodon’s teeth were biting

down on his back.

“Let me sit up.”

Masao Tanaka was waiting by the north bleachers, his head heavily bandaged. Mac was

there, too, leaning on crutches.

Terry saw her father and waved.

Tears of joy flowed down Masao’s cheeks as he waved back, grateful his daughter was safe.

Doubled over in pain, Jonas focused on what appeared to be a juvenile great white being

towed in a trawl net along the port side of the stern. The shark was small, seven feet long,

weighing between three and four hundred pounds. It was struggling fiercely, twisting within the

confines of the fishing net, the action serving to wash the dead Meg’s blood from the female

pup’s hide.

Jesus … it’s an albino.

For a brief moment, man and beast regarded one another, the creature staring at Jonas

with its soulless gray-blue eyes, Jonas marveling at the presence of the Megalodon offspring.

He closed his eyes at the irony and smiled.

And then the pain became overwhelming and the submersible pilot lost consciousness as

two paramedics loaded him onto a gurney.

TO BE CONTINUED …

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Steve Alten

The MEG series continues in:

The Trench

MEG: Primal Waters

MEG: Hell’s Aquarium

MEG: Night Stalkers

MEG: Generations

MEG: Purgatory (TBD)

To contact the author, receive free monthly updates, or to enter contests to become

characters in his novels, go to:

www.SteveAlten.com

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